Tintin and Alph Art  An Imagining
by los.kav
Summary: My interpretation of the unfinished final Tintin story. Set in an updated, modern world complete with cool phones, gadgets and Facebook. I hope someone enjoys reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it. - NO SLASH! Sorry!
1. Chapter 1

**One**

_A dream has the power to poison sleep – _Percy Bysshe Shelly__

The road from Moulinsart village was thin and winding, and lined with trees the closer it drew to the manor house. It was peaceful and remote, passing by a few houses that were hidden from the road by high hedges, and rarely busy. In winter, it was slippery and some of the corners could be treacherous, but in the summer it was a beautiful walk – shaded and cool in parts, warm and joyous in others.

This morning it was peaceful, and though it was still relatively early in the morning it was beginning to heat up. It would be another wonderful summer's day in this small corner of Belgium.

Most of the windows in the manor were thrown open to the early morning heat. In the distance, a sheep bawled happily and the songbirds called to one another from the tops of the trees. The park stretched from the front of the property; curled around one side of the manor, and sprawled across the back fields and meadows.

A single woodpecker swooped down from the sky and landed on a small sycamore that grew at the front of the manor house. It tilted its head to one side as it stared at the bark of the young tree. It hopped closer to the trunk, considered its options, and began to hammer furiously, sending a sharp _rap-tap_ through the still air.

The sound woke Captain Haddock up. Yawning, he turned over on to his back and stretched luxuriously. After a short moment, he realised that the _rap-tapping_ had continued.

"Who is it?" he called sleepily, blinking at the light that flooded through the open window. Dust motes drifted lazily in the shafts of bright light.

"It is Nester, sir, with your breakfast." The familiar voice of the manor's butler made the Captain's stomach wake up. It growled and he grinned: he always had an apatite first thing in the morning.

"Come in," he said.

The door burst open and Bianca Castafiore walked in, panache radiating from her stylish form. The Captain recoiled, dragging his blankets up around his chin and clamping down on the scream that was trying to fight its way out of his mouth. Instead, he managed a high-pitched keen that escaped through his gritted teeth. "Thundering typhoons! Wh… what?" he asked weakly.

"Good morning, my dear friend!" the large woman crooned. She was, he decided, too _loud_ for mornings. "I have brought your medicine!" She waved a bottle of Loch Lomond at him as she approached. He stared at it warily.

"I can't drink that," he protested. "Blistering barnacles, woman, you know I can't drink whisky any more!" An unknown experiment carried out on his unsuspecting person had rendered him unable to stomach his favourite poison. The summer was going to slip by without Calculus finding a cure for it, he just _knew_ that it would, and one of his favourite past-times was sitting on the back veranda in the warm summer evenings, watching the sun set with a glass of whisky. Pain in the asses, always thinking about his welfare. To the devil with them!

"Now now," La Castafiore said. She was so close to him they were practically nose to nose. "You must take your medicine, like a good boy!" Her face started to twist and mutate before his very eyes. The nose became longer, the eyes narrowed and glared at him menacingly, and her teeth were _sharper_. As he watched, her perfectly coiffured hair stiffened like the spines of a porcupine, and grew up into feathers, turning her into some kind of demonic bird. "Take your medicine!" she screamed at him, her voice heavy like a man's.

The Captain thrashed and screamed, trying to fight her off. Clucking bells, but she was strong! His feet kicked uselessly, trapped in the blankets that had somehow managed to wrap themselves around his body. "Tintin!" he shrieked. "Help me!"

In the bedroom down the hall, Snowy woke up. He had been sleeping on the chair in front of the window, enjoying the cooler air, but now he was bristling and barking loudly. Tintin sat up and blinked the sleep from his eyes. "Hah?" he said stupidly. Then he heard the frantic cries (_"Away, ostragoth! Get back, coelacanth!")_ and jumped out of bed, tripping over a slipper. He kicked it away, and it bounced off Snowy, who was now at the closed door, barking shrilly. He yelped as the slipper collided with him, but it was more from fear than anything else, judging by the Look he sent his master. Tintin cursed quietly in French and wrenched the door open, tearing after the dog towards the Captain's bedroom. He went in and saw the Captain still sleeping – clearly having some sort of nightmare – and thrashing about in the bed. He went to his friend and tried to shake him awake, and ended up getting a smack in the face for his trouble. He cursed again and tried a different tactic, grabbing the Captain's left foot and shaking it until the man awoke.

The Captain sat up with a final, strangled yell. Catching sight of Tintin, he sagged a little, rubbing his face with his hands. "Oh, blistering barnacles, what a nightmare!" he said with a shudder.

"Nightmare?" Tintin raised one eyebrow. Now the initial shock had worn off, he could see the humour in the situation. Even though his cheek stung from the Captain's hand.

"It was horrible," the Captain said in a hollow voice. "The horror…"

"What was it?" Tintin struggled to keep his smile hidden.

"Bianca Castafiore. Here. In my room."

Tintin quickly pressed his hand against his mouth to suppress a laugh. "That's it?" he asked. "That's all?"

"No, it was… it was _evil._" The Captain shuddered again. "She came in, bossy as ever – maybe even more bossy than usual – and tried to force-feed me whisky. Then she turned into a bird."

Tintin laughed aloud. "I see," he said flippantly. "Plenty to scream about there."

"I didn't scream," the Captain insisted grumpily. Now that he was awake, with sunlight flooding the room, the dream seemed ridiculous. "I cried out. No, I, er, I called out. Manfully."

"Mm. I'm sure you did."

"You just misheard, that's all."

"_Bien sûr._"

"Because you were asleep."

"_C'était un hurlement._"

"Exactly."

"_Exactement._"

The phone rang, interrupting the Captain from his scowling. Tintin picked it up and rattled off something in French. His mouth dropped open at the reply, and he quickly changed to English.

"Good morning, signora!" He cast an amazed look at the Captain, whose face drained of colour. "Yes, it's such a pleasure to hear from you again. How are you? … I see! You're in Brussels!"

"Sod this for a game of toy soldiers!" The Captain fought his way free of the blankets and got out of bed. Grabbing some clothes from the wardrobe, he fled the room, leaving Tintin to talk to the signora.

"I'm afraid you just missed him," Tintin said into the receiver, grinning at the Captain's flight. He was very manfully running away.

"Yes," she replied, her voice horribly clear through the phone line. "I've just arrived from Los Angeles. I'm here for two days – just a stop over, really. I'm planning on coming and embracing you; you and my brave Hassock. How is the dear man?"

"He's fine," Tintin lied. "I'm sure he'll be very sorry to have missed you…"

"Tomorrow then. Oh!" Against all odds, her voice actually _rose_ with disappointment. "Tomorrow is impossible! I have a date with Endaddine."

"Endaddine?" Only half listening, Tintin had coaxed Snowy up onto the Captain's bed. Clamping the phone between his cheek and shoulder, he had covered Snowy with the blanket and was scratching at the lump, which growled happily and proceeded to dig furiously.

"Don't tell me you don't know Endaddine!" La Castafiore said shrilly. "The great, the one and only Endaddine Akass! He is a fascinating man, darling, absolutely fascinating. You simply must meet him. He's the most ma-a-arvellous mystic. He lays his hands on your head and you're magnetised for a year. In fact, I'm going to spend a few days with him, on Ischia. You absolutely have to meet him; he's inspired. But I must leave you now, I'm going window shopping. Lots of kisses to my dear Paddock! _Ciao!_"

Tintin put the phone down and let Snowy out. With a yawn, he padded back to his own room and got dressed. Once he was ready (and had finished messing about on Facebook – that Farmville was such a time-waster. He didn't know why anyone played. He only tended his own crops and visited his friends' farms. And sometimes did the quests. Most of the quests. And bought farm cash on his credit card. And set alarms on his phone to remind him when his shorter-lived crops were ready. But that was all. He certainly didn't PM people to ask them to send him stuff. Except for Chang. But Chang played too, so that was ok.) he headed down for breakfast.

The dining room was empty, and set for one. Nestor, the butler they had sort of… inherited when they got the manor, appeared with a fresh plate of croissants. "Where is the Captain?" Tintin asked as he helped himself to a cup of coffee. He never spoke French to Nester: the man was an old-school British butler. It had to be the Queen's own English or nothing at all.

"He went out, sir," Nester replied. "He seemed in a great hurry. He didn't even drink his tea. He said he wouldn't be back until this evening."

"Oh." Tintin shrugged. "Fine. I have the whole day to work on that stupid book…" That was becoming a pain in the backside too. He'd agreed to publish a collection of his earlier articles – some of the more exciting and sociologically-based stuff about gang culture in Paris, including drugs and prostitution – as a book, but most of the articles had been written when he was still working for _The Daily Reporter_, and they were getting into a snit about releasing their rights to his work without any money. They wanted something stupid, like 50% of the royalties, but he was sure _another_ day of tedious negotiations with his agent and the editor would get them to see sense.

Although probably not.

He looked out of the window at the beautiful day, and wished he'd run off with the Captain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

_A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession__ – __Albert Camus_

It was only an hour's drive from Moulinsart to Brussels, and with car window rolled down and music blaring from the radio, it seemed shorter. There weren't even any traffic jams, but the Captain still parked a short walk away from the centre of the city, and strolled through the streets at his leisure. The pavement cafés were filled with well-to-do looking people – some in business suits and some in casual clothes – having their morning _baignets_ and coffee, and more were walking to work or simply shopping. The roads were busy, but everything _flowed_ with the easy grace of a city on a summer's day.

The Captain had lived in Belgium for over a decade. Mainly, he had lived in Antwerp, but since he'd lost his ship and couldn't be bothered getting another one, he'd relocated to Brussels, and then Moulinsart. He liked the pace of life and the fact that everyone spoke English, more or less, and he enjoyed the feel of the cities. They were almost old-world and had a certain charm that London and Liverpool lacked. Brussels suited him; from Manekkin Piss to La Grand Place, there was nowhere in the city that he didn't enjoy being. That his French wasn't strong, and that he didn't really speak much Dutch didn't bother him: he found that once you were a multi-millionaire everyone spoke your language.

Lost in the crowd, he allowed the city to direct his path.

Until he saw her.

_Her! Here! Quel horreurs!_

Bianca Castafiore, complete with her dithering entourage and a toy poodle (tucked up under her arm, of course), was striding directly towards him. Catastrophe! Cataclysm! Calamity! What could he do? Where could he go?

He dove into the nearest shop, slamming the door behind him. He backed away from the glass door and hid behind a… _thing_, ignoring it to peer out the long, open shop-front to the crowd outside. The people were parting before La Diva, and he could see her perfectly sculpted blond hair bobbing over their heads as she walked. He was saved, for the time being.

"_Excusez-moi, monsieur?_" He turned and saw a young girl, an assistant of some kind with long brown hair, glasses, and plain face. She wore a simple, but stylish, suit. "_Peux-je vous aider?_"

"_Je suis... er, je passais juste à côté. Juste la pensée je jetterais un coup d'œil autour de._" A reasonable thing to say: he was passing by and thought he'd have a quick look around. He grinned at her, aware that he probably looked like some sort of lunatic. He was, he realised, in an art gallery of some kind, surrounded by monstrous things made out of glass. The one he was hiding behind was a huge letter 'I'. Inside it, what looked to be a young woman floated, or was suspended, with her legs straight and her arms by her side. Her face was beautiful and serene, her throat marred with bruises that looked like hand-prints. "It's, er, very nice," he said at last. _Thundering typhoons, what a monstrosity!_

"Ah, you are English," the assistant said. "Very good! This is "Inaaya". She is is the ninth in Ramó Nash's Alph-Art series."

"Alph-Art?" he asked weakly.

"Yes. Monsieur Nash is an artist from Flanders. He is considered by many to be a visionary of the modern art movement, blending the old with the new, and creating a cutting-edge"-

The door to the gallery opened, and La Castafiore breezed in.

"Bloody hell!" The Captain ducked and dashed away, heading to the back of the gallery and leaving the poor assistant in the middle of her spiel. He was _sure_ he looked like a lunatic now, but he simply didn't care. He had to escape! His very life (or at least his good humour) depended on it.

There was a door. It was plain and brown and probably led to a broom closet. He opened it and ran inside.

It was not a broom closet: it was a long gallery lined with more of the same macbre sculptures as the one he had hidden behind outside. Two lines of girls encased in glass faced each other, their bodies bent to form the shape of a letter of the alphabet. Two men stood under a bare bulb, staring at the Captain. One of the men was tall and dark-haired, and wore an impecable business suit. The other was shorter, scruffier, and had strawberry blond hair. There was something vaguelly familiar about him.

"Can I help you?" the taller of the men asked politely. His accent wasn't French; he was English. Southern counties, the Captain guessed.

"Er, I was..." Looking for a bathroom? No, that's only acceptable in a pub really. "I'm disturbing you," he said, his mind frantically searching for a reason to his intruding on them. "I just wanted... to tell you... How facsinating I find your exhibition." He grinned, pleased at himself. Artists always swallowed that sort of fawning praise.

The scruffy little man raised an eyebrow. "You are interested in Alph-Art, sir?" he asked. His accent was clearly Flanders: he must be the artist, whats-his-name.

"Passionately," the Captain lied. "I'm absolutely wild about it."

"I am Ramó Nash, monsieur, and I thank you. In fact, I congratulate you. This is Monsieur Fourcart. He is the director of this gallery, and my manager. He keeps me in line."

The Captian smiled, and shook the artist's hand, but there was something about the man he didn't like. It was instinct. Nash's eyes were almost mocking. There was something dark hidden there, lurking and peering out.

"How do you do, Mr... Mr?" Fourcart shook the Captain's hand.

"Haddock," the Captain supplied. "Captain Haddock."

"Haddock? Not, by any chance, Tintin's dearest friend?" Fourcart asked.

"Yes." The Captain nodded. "For my sins."

"I see." Fourcart looked apraisingly at the Captain. "Perhaps I could meet him? He is, after all, a journalist, and this exhibit will be the first time the entire Alph-Art collection will be viewed publicly. It will be a big night."

The Captain doubted that Tintin would be interested: he wasn't that sort of journalist. He viewed society news warily, and refused to touch anything that involved a celebrity (unless it was actual news). On the other hand, the Captain couldn't really say no: these two men were the only things keeping him from Bianca Castafiore.

"Can't hurt," he said with a shrug. "Phone him first; the number is Moulinsart 621."

"I'm sure Tintin wouldn't be interested in such a thing," Nash said. The Captain was startled to see the look in the artist's eyes: it was almost hateful. He smiled at Fourcart, and it was the smile a cat might give a mouse. "He's more interested in real news, isn't he? Murders and things like that. Surely you're familiar with his work?"

"News is news," Fourcart replied warily. The Captain suddenly had the feeling that he had walked into another discussion entirely. There was something hidden beneath the two men's exchange, and he certainly wasn't included in it.

"Indeed it is," Nash agreed, "but some things are more news than others, if you'll forgive my bad English. Now, Tintin's friend," – he turned to the Captain and smiled that bleak smile again – "the exhibition isn't open to the public yet. Why don't I show you around the few pieces that are on display?"

"Yes, you do that," Fourcart murmured. He looked almost… _shaken,_ the Captain thought. "I have business to attend to."

"Then you should attend to it. Come, Monsieur Haddock. Let me guide you through my work."

The Captain found himself being marched back towards the public gallery. Before he could protest he was through the plain brown door and back in the main room. Now that he looked clearly, several pieces, all of women suspended in those glass cases, were scattered around. Some of them were moulded into the shape of letters, others were posed carefully.

And Bianca Castafiore was standing under what was clearly the signature piece, the _piece de resistance_. It was a tall, clear sculpture shaped like the tip of a glacier, almost seven foot high in total. Inside, a rather beautiful woman was suspended. Her face was serene, although bruising marred her check and blood was splattered on her left temple. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and the plaque embedded in the marble based proclaimed her "Mother".

"Ah! Dearest Bianca!" Nash exclaimed.

Bianca turned with a start, her face relaxing into a wide smile when she saw the artist. "Ramó! Darling!" She gripped his arms and they air-kissed one another on both cheeks. Bianca, the Captain saw, was delighted with meeting her friend. Nash looked amused and aloof, almost cruel; as though she was beneath him, a contemptuous thing. That was pretty much how the Captain felt, but he hoped he hid it better than this strange, unsettling man.

"Allow me to present an art lover," Nash was saying. He gestured to the Captain.

"Captain Stopcock!" Bianca cried. "You? Here? What a pleasure!"

The Captain did his best to hide his annoyance at being pulled into one of Bianca's noisy embraces. "Bianca!" he said. "You? Here? What a surprise."

"How delightful to find you here!" she cried, holding him at arms length. She did look genuinely delighted, he realised, unlike Nash, who looked pleased at the Captain's discomfort. "You're interested in Alph-Art! Well, I'd never have thought it possible! That a simple fisherman, without any education"-

"Merchant marine," the Captain corrected her, without hope of being heard. "And I have an O level in maths."

-"Should be mad about art! It's fantastic! It proves, Ramó, that your art, so simple and at the same time so rich, so noble yet so basic, can reach the whole world, from the most uncouth to the most… the most… Well, to people like us! Ah, Alph-Art! A genuine return to the sources, to the caves of Castamura. Er, of Lascaux. Well, in a nutshell, it is the art of our time, no? In it, we return to the origins of civilisation, don't we?"

"Do we?" the Captain asked uncertainly. He eyed "Mother" warily. "I mean… It's… y'know."

"Unsettling," Nash supplied. "It is meant to be."

"It looks real," the Captain said.

"It is."

The Captain looked at Nash sharply. "Beg pardon?"

"I have studied the human body extensively," Nash explained. There was something else in his face now, a certain arrogance. He gestured to the strange sculpture. "I build a skeleton from scratch, adding muscles and tendons and building up the body, until the skin is applied over it all. All made from synthetic materials, of course. Each hair on their heads is meticulously placed and styled. The clothes are custom made by myself. She is as real-looking as any person, I assure you. Everything is perfection, in my sculptures."

"It looks like a dead body," the Captain said. He was getting sick of this little man now. _Blistering barnacles, what a creep. What a creepy little freak. _

Nash and Bianca burst out laughing, sharing some private joke he wasn't a part of. "It's supposed to!" Bianca cried. "My dear Captain Ratflock! It is a searing indictment on how society treats women these days. We are driven by society's rules: we must look a certain way; we must dress a certain way; we must act a certain way. If we don't, we are considered 'inferior' or 'ugly', and cast aside. When we adorn ourselves with beautiful things, we are simply postponing the time when men will cast us aside anyway, because of age! These 'women' are supposed to remind us that beauty is fleeting and shallow! They are supposed to unsettle us, because they contain at their core a truth so devastating the world would rather not see it!"

"Oh," said the Captain. _This is probably leading up to something about the size 0 debate._

"Look at her, Captain Kapock!" Bianca's arms swept wide to show all of Mother. "What strength! What nobility! A woman, raising children – a veritable bitch, birthing society – beaten and subdued by the society she strives to join! You feel better now that you've seen her, no?"

"Er… Um…"

Bianca hooked her hand into his arm and dragged him to another statue. This one was of two young women, their bodies arching backwards to join together, to form the letter 'O'. "This work here!" she cried. "A microcosm of the whole universe, from Alfa to Romeo… Fiat… Lancia… to Omega… No, wait, that's another make."

"Er…"

"Aah, you must have the 'K', no? For Kapok!" She gestured for Nash to join them. "Show him the 'K', for Kapok. He will buy it!"

"My name is Haddock," the Captain hissed.

"My goodness, what was I thinking? Show him 'A', for Addock!"

"Haddock is spelt with an 'H', signora."

"In that case, I have precisely what you need," Nash said suddenly. His eyes brightened, and he struggled to hide his grin. "Please, come with me." He led them into the back room, down along the rows of statues, until he reached one. It was of two young women – they looked as though they could be teenagers – with their bodies facing one another, their heads turned to observe the viewer with curiously saddened eyes. Their arms were stretched straight out, their hands clasped, and together their bodies formed the letter 'H'.

"Not just Alph-Art," Nash purred, "but Personalph-Art."

Bianca sighed in appreciation. "Inspired," she said wistfully. "Sublime. Marvellous. Transcendent! It is exactly what you need, my dear friend. You can't let it go: this piece was waiting for you!"

"Bianca is right, monsieur," said Nash. "Such a chance may never come your way again. I ask only that you allow me to display it here, when the exhibition begins."

"Of course he will!" Bianca declared. "There is no question of that! Captain Hassok, where is your cheque-book?"

It suddenly dawned on the Captain that he really had no choice in the matter. He pulled out his cheque-book and pen, and tried desperately not to think of how much money he was wasting on such a monstrosity. And he wished he'd ended up in a café instead of an art gallery: an iced bun was a lot nicer than a searing indictment about society. Cheaper, too.


	3. Chapter 3

Three

He slunk in to the manor, hoping against hope that nobody was home. After the gallery, he'd gone to the cinema and hidden there for awhile, ignoring the calls coming in on his mobile phone. Then the texts had started to come, and he'd read a few in the darkness while some rubbish about vampires and werewolves played out, unnoticed, on the big screen. His phone was on silent, so he wasn't disturbing anyone, but he was glad nobody could see how red his face was.

Mortification.

When Nestor had started to get frantic, he started to ignore his phone completely. He really didn't want to see what Tintin would send once he saw the sculpture which, according the texts, had already been delivered. That Ramó Nash must have brought the damned thing over himself, as soon as possible, to complete the Captain's rubbish day.

Nestor appeared. The Captain's day got a little bit more rubbish.

"Er, sir," said the butler.

"Don't start," the Captain snapped. He took off his cap and rubbed his hand through his messy, black hair. "Blistering barnacles, I know."

"Captain?" Tintin called from the nearest reception room. "Can you come here a moment?"

"Do I have to?" the Captain called back.

"No-o," Tintin said uncertainly, "but I'd really appreciate it."

He took a deep breath and went in.

It was there: his giant 'H'. For Hardsock, most probably.

Tintin was standing in front of it, his hands jammed into the pockets of his brown cords. Snowy was sniffing around it, unsure of what it was. Tintin looked at the Captain helplessly.

"It's art," the Captain said sourly. "It's a searing indictment."

"Is it?" Tintin asked.

"Yes."

"Of what?"

"Of how we treat women."

"Oh. Us specifically? Or 'us' in general?"

"In general. Y'know, society."

"Ah." Tintin nodded. Then he shook his head. "I still don't get it."

"It's Alph-Art. Personalph-Art. It's an 'H', for Haddock. Do you get it now?"

Tintin shrugged. "It's a bit… ugly, no? I mean…" He shrugged again, and then fell silent, staring at it. They looked at it. The Captain knew: it was horrible. As soon as the exhibition was over, he'd chuck it down in the cellars. Let it get lost down there with the rest of the junk.

"Who made it?" Tintin asked at last. Snowy had decided it was a tree, and tried to pee on it. Tintin hooshed him with his foot to stop him. The dog wuffed glumly and wandered off.

"Ramó Nash," the Captain said, glad to be back on firmer ground. "He's an artist out of Flanders. Do you know him?"

Tintin frowned. "Ramó Nash… The name certainly rings a bell with me, but I don't think I can place him."

"Speaking of him – horrible little man, by the way, very sinister – his manger, or agent, or whoever, wants a word with you."

"Oh?" Tintin perked up at this. "What's up?"

"There's some exhibition starting at a gallery in town. Fourcart, the man is called. I think the gallery is named the same. He wants publicity for it, I think. More of this trash, unfortunately." He gestured at the statue. "There's a whole alphabet of them."

"Bah. I don't deal with this sort of thing." Tintin screwed up his face distastefully. "This isn't real news. This distracts people from real news."

"Speaking of the news," the Captain said, "what time is it? Have I missed the headlines?"

"Not yet. TV's on though. I was watching _Home and Away_ when Nestor insisted I come and do something about your 'H'." They wandered into the sitting room together, the Captain collapsing gratefully into his favourite chair. Tintin curled up on the sofa with Snowy, and changed the channel. The familiar refrain of the news came on, and the Captain was glad to let his mind wander for a few minutes.

"That's odd," Tintin said, jolting him out of his idle thoughts. The Captain frowned and concentrated on what was being said on the news.

"…An experienced yachtsman," the anchor-man was saying, "Monsieur Monastir left a small port in Sardinia three weeks ago. His yacht, the _Emerald_, has been found empty, drifting off the Corsican coast at Ajaccio, near the Sanguinaires islands. A length of rope was attached to the boat. Jacques Monastir was known world-wide as a respected art expert, and most of the great museums have called upon his expertise in the past. It seems probable that Monsieur Monastir decided to go for a swim, and for safety attached himself to the boat by a line. Then, somehow, disaster struck…"

The phone rang. Instinctively, and without taking his eyes from the television screen, Tintin reached out and grabbed the cordless extension. "Bonjour?" he said. Rolling his eyes, he switched to English. "Good evening, Monsieur Fourcart."

"Speaking of experts," the Captain muttered.

"Yes, this is Tintin," Tintin was saying. "I'm sorry, could you speak up? … What?" He frowned, and listened carefully to the receiver. "Gladly, if it's as good as you say. But monsieur, I must warn you now that I don't do society pages or celebrity news… I see. … I see. … Very well, tomorrow at six pm. Goodbye, monsieur." He hung up the phone and tossed it onto the empty seat beside him. "How very interesting," he said.

The Captain turned the television to mute, and looked at him. "What?"

"Your Monsieur Fourcart has no intention of seeking publicity. He said he has a sensational article for me."

"Probably the opening of that blasted exhibition." The Captain turned the sound back on, completely disinterested again. "He said that it was the first time the full collection was being shown. And Castafiore seemed to think the whole thing was to die for." He affected her Italian accent, and made his voice shrill. "_Aaah! My dear Captain Badrock! This is the cradle of civilization, no?_"

"He told me to look up statistics for young people that go missing in Europe," Tintin said. He put Snowy down on the ground, and stood up.

"Where are you going?" the Captain asked. "Who went missing in Europe?"

"Lots of people go missing in Europe," Tintin said as he walked towards the door. He paused, his hand on the door handle, and looked back. "You know, there's a statistic that the percentage of people that disappear without a trace corresponds to the same statistic of animals that are eaten by predators in the wild. Granted, some disappear willingly, to escape debts or their enemies, and others fall through the cracks and end up homeless, or drug addicts, or forced into the sex trade. But the numbers of those that disappear and are never seen or heard from again are phenomenal."

The Captain knew of this statistic. It frightened him. It bothered him at nights, especially now that there was a teenager living in his house, under his care. It didn't help that he'd watched the movie _Taken_ the night after Tintin had left to see a concert in Sweden with some friends, and decided to extend his over-night stay to include the rest of the long weekend. The Captain remembered that bank holiday as one of the most harrowing in his life, imagining all sorts of things happening to the happy, out-going, sixteen year old lad. The relief he'd felt when he'd gone to pick Tintin up from the airport at stupid o'clock that Tuesday morning had been astonishing.

"What's that got to do with art?" he asked gruffly.

Tintin shrugged. "I don't know. But hopefully Monsieur Fourcart can enlighten me tomorrow."


	4. Chapter 4

Four

_News is what somebody somewhere wants to suppress; all the rest is advertising - **Lord Northcliffe**_

Tintin settled himself on the sofa and waited. It was ten to six, according to his watch, and Monsieur Fourcart would be arriving soon. He flicked idly through the stations – the Captain had gone for a walk, taking Snowy with him to give Tintin some space – while he waited. There was nothing much on, except for an episode of _The Simpsons_, but it was a new one, and Tintin didn't like them much any more. They lacked something. They weren't as funny as the older episodes, in his opinion. He missed the edge that made the classic episodes truly brilliant.

He flicked around again. _Mtv_ didn't seem to show music these days, only reality TV shows about meat-heads and air-heads. He missed the days of Eddie Temple-Morris and Davina McCall, back when she was cool. _Mtv Hits _was showing the chart show, but somehow Cher Lloyd was still in the top five, so he changed it before _Swagger Jagger _got stuck in his head again. It was annoyingly catchy.

Oh good! There was an episode of _The Simpsons_ on. He watched for a few minutes before realising it was the same episode he had just turned off. He went back to flicking, until he found the repeat of _Home and Away_ and started watching that.

He checked his watch: half past six. Monsieur Fourcart was late already, and Tintin had wasted forty minutes of his life on bad TV. At least _Home and Away _was on. He didn't follow the story much – he never really had the time to watch much television – but he still enjoyed speculating on how in the world Romeo passed for a high-school student. The guy that played him looked about thirty. His girlfriend was alright though. Tintin liked Indy. She had a huge rear end, although he was disappointed to see that these days it was hidden behind props whenever she was on-screen.

It finished. The news started. He watched it. When the weather forecast began, he heard the front door open. Moments later, Snowy rushed into the room, panting happily and wagging his tail, followed shortly by the Captain.

Tintin looked at his watch. It was half past seven. "I doubt Monsieur Fourcart will show up now," he mused. The Captain looked at him, surprised.

"You're still waiting? Thundering typhoons, it's a bit late now isn't it?"

"He must have forgotten our meeting," Tintin replied. He stretched, and poked at Snowy with the toe of his boot. The dog growled playfully and attacked his foot with gusto.

"Phone the gallery?" the Captain offered.

"I'll go and see him tomorrow," Tintin replied. "I have to go to Brussels anyway."

"Do you want me to drive you?" The Captain hated Tintin's motorbike. He especially hated how doctors called people that rode them 'organ donors'. He'd once read an article by Stephen Fry, about Fry's cousin in America, who was a doctor. It concerned a person that needed an organ donation, and a doctor had announced to them 'Good news, you'll have a new organ today!' When the patient had asked what time it would arrive, the doctor had looked out at the rainy street and said; 'Any time during the rush hour, I would assume!'

"No, I'll take my bike," Tintin replied.

"What do you have to do in Brussels?" The Captain settled himself into his favourite chair with a small groan. He'd noticed himself doing that recently: making noises when sitting down or standing up or leaning over. Another sign of age.

"I have to meet with someone from _The Daily Reporter_."

"How's that going?"

"Not great. I'll know more after lunch tomorrow though."

"Good luck with that." The Captain tried to stay out of things like this: it wasn't his affair. It was rooted firmly in the category of 'Tintin's Job', and that didn't concern him. Not the business side at least, although he'd found himself stepping in whenever he felt the lad was getting taken advantage of. There'd been too much of that already, and it wasn't fair to bend him over a barrel simply because of his youth. It wasn't as though Tintin needed the money – he earned enough from his free-lance work, and he'd written a series of books published under his real name that were best-sellers, plus his share of Red Rackham's Treasure was sitting in a trust fund, maturing and waiting for him to turn eighteen – but it still rankled that unscrupulous types were still able to take advantage of the stupid decisions he'd made when he was a kid in Paris.

Sometimes, he despaired of the world, he really did. No wonder so many young people went missing in Europe: they were probably all working for _The Daily Reporter._

xxx

They were sitting at breakfast when the newspaper arrived. They got everything delivered: a house full of men was a house that was strongly opposed to shopping. Snowy was the one that fetched it, holding it in his mouth and trotting proudly into the dining room, his head held high and a smug look directed at the cat. _The cat doesn't do this,_ it seemed to say. _The cat's useless. I'm far more important. _

"What fresh disasters await us?" Tintin asked as he took the newspaper from the dog, and replaced it with half a sausage. He unrolled the paper, his jaw dropping when he saw the front page. "You won't believe it!" he cried.

"What?" the Captain continued smearing marmalade on his toast, only half listening.

"Monsieur Fourcart is dead!"

"You're _kidding!_ Thundering typhoons! When did that happen?"

**FOURCART DIES**

**ART WORLD MOURNS AGAIN**

Yesterday, Jacques Monastir disappeared off the coast of Ajaccio, near the Sanguinaire Isles. Today, the renowned expert Henry Fourcart met his end in an

accident. His car skidded on a bend, plunged into a dry riverbed and burst into flames. The doomed driver perished in the blaze.

"Very mysterious," Tintin said quietly. "He had something to tell me, and he dies too, like his unhappy colleague."

"Thundering typhoons." The Captain quickly read through the article. "Poor man. A chapter of accidents…"

"But what if they weren't accidents?"

"Oh, you! You see mysteries everywhere."

"Hmm. You're probably right, Captain. But even so, I think I'll think stop by the gallery today anyway."


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

_Drive-in banks were established so most of the cars today could see their real owners. __– __E. Joseph Cossman_

Tintin parked his motorbike across the road from the gallery. The morning rush-hour traffic was clearing, the flow moving on to the centre of the city and the heart of Brussels. This was a fashionable street, with boutiques and chic wine-bars: part of the cultural revolution that had over-taken most European cities during the economic boom. Discrete smoking areas in the slender alleyways were festooned with lights and ironic posters, and beer gardens had suddenly sprouted leather armchairs, and couches and – in a disturbing trend that had taken over – beds, for some reason.

The outside of Fourcart's Gallery was pristine in its austerity. The long window – the glass sparkling – contained a few choice pieces of statuary and a couple of prints by the Masters. A clever mash-up of _The Scream_, with Bono as the Screamer, sat beside an armless Venus the Milo that wore a blindfold and a safety pin through her nose. Red paint had been splashed over her groin area in what was, Tintin was sure, an ironic statement about feminism, or something.

Modern art, he reflected, was crap.

What was wrong with a nice painting? He wasn't clueless about art – far from it: he had started out doubling as his own photographer, and had published two volumes of his own work to critical acclaim. But when had an unmade bed surpassed the killing fields as a statement about society? Perhaps he was just old-fashioned, but he saw more in his own work, and that of people like Annie Leibovitz and Simon Hoegsberg, than in most modern art. An image could invoke the senses, and a thousand different emotions. Modern art just made him confused.

There was a sign posted on the door. No food, no drink. He assumed this included pets too.

"You stay here, Snowy," he said to the dog. Snowy looked up at him and seemed to roll his eyes before parking his butt on the pavement, leaning against the brick wall beside the door. Tintin straightened his jacket – brown leather and old, but damned comfortable – and went inside.

He was met by a young woman, the assistant. Her brown hair was held back in a simple ponytail, and she wore thick-rimmed black glasses that looked fashionable on her. Her pleated skirt and simple blouse were black, as were her pumps. Her eyes behind the glasses were red: she had been crying recently.

"Hello," he said, with a warm smile. He was known for his smile, and he used it ruthlessly to disarm people and wrangle information from them. It was his best weapon.

"How do you do?" she asked, her own smile weak. "Can I help you?"

"I… er, it's like this: My name is Tintin. I'm a journalist. Monsieur Fourcart arranged a meeting with me but didn't show up for it. He said he had something interesting to tell me."

"Oh. It's probably about the upcoming show," she said sadly. "Poor Monsieur Fourcart: he and Monsieur Nash have been working together for many years. This was to be Ramo's triumph." She pulled a tissue out of her sleeve and pressed it against her nose. Fresh tears leaked from her eyes.

"No, he specifically said it wasn't anything to do with the show," Tintin replied slowly. He wondered how best to broach this subject with the assistant, who looked like she didn't need any more worries. "It was about missing people," he said at last.

She frowned at him, her sorrow forgotten in her confusion. "Missing people?"

"Specifically, people that disappear travelling through central Europe," he said helpfully.

"I have no idea," she replied, still mystified. "He's never – I mean, he _had_ never – mentioned anything about that to me. Are you sure?"

"Positive," Tintin murmured. He looked around the gallery. Ramo Nash's 'triumphs' looked out of place in the stark design of the gallery.

"When was your meeting?" The assistant went to her desk – more of a counter, like the type one would see in a hair salon – and opened a thick, well-used A4 legal pad.

"Yesterday," Tintin replied, joining her. He leaned on the counter top and tried to discretely steal a look at the notepad. It seemed to be appointments for Fourcart's formerly busy schedule. "Yesterday evening, six o'clock," he clarified.

"Hmm. _'6pm: interview with Le Soir'_. Is that your magazine?" she asked.

"No, I'm freelance." He reached over and took the book, spinning it on the counter until it faced him. Skimming it, he could see she was right: his scheduled meeting for yesterday evening was with Le Soir, a magazine Tintin had a little business with. The other appointments for the week were lunch dates and evening soirees with various culture magazines and newspapers.

"I'm sorry, sir, it must have slipped his mind," she said with a shrug as she retrieved the book.

_Unless Fourcart had put it down as Le Soir, because he didn't want anyone to know he was meeting with me, _Tintin thought to himself. "And you have no idea why he would want to see me?" he wondered aloud, not really holding out any hope for an answer.

"No, sir. I had no idea he was even meeting with you. He said nothing about it." She shrugged helplessly.

"It's just…" he paused and bit at his bottom lip, frowning. "I'm struck by the deaths – or at least, one death and one disappearance – one after the other, of two well-known art experts. It makes me wonder… Are they accidents?"

The girl blinked, her eyes wide and owlish. "Oh, sir! What on earth are you saying? Who could possibly want to get rid of Monsieur Fourcart? He hadn't got a single enemy. Honestly! He was one of the nicest men in the world!"

"Of course. What was he like as a driver? Was he careful? Forgive me, but did he like to have a glass or two, and perhaps drive?"

She raised her eyebrow at him in a way that spoke volumes. He was, he suspected, impugning her beloved boss's reputation. "Never!" she said forcefully. "He drank only water or Sani-Cola. As for his driving…" she paused and shrugged. "I always thought he was too careful. Sometimes, when he gave me a lift home after work, it took longer than the tram. He stuck to the speed limit and hated merging."

"What sort of car did he drive?" Tintin's mind was drifting, reaching out for every angle. He let it work like this: it got the job done. "Maybe there was something wrong with it…"

She shrugged again. "That would be a question for his garage," she replied. "I know his car was in for a servicing recently. Some little job or another…" She waved it away.

"Do you have the address of his mechanic?" he asked. He smiled at her again, and she found herself grinning back as she flipped through the appointment book. "Here it is," she said. She picked up a small post-it note and scribbled the address on it. "La Garage de l'Avenir at Leignault. Monsieur Fourcart has a house near there, on the outskirts."

Tintin took the card and slipped it in to pocket of his jacket. "Thank you, Miss… er, Miss?" He left the question hanging.

"Vandezande," she said, holding out her hand. He took it and they shook. "Martine Vandezande."

Tintin smiled again and left, taking one last look at the monstrosities of Ramo Nash. _Creepy,_ he thought to himself. Outside, Snowy was still sitting beside the door. He whistled to the dog, crossed the road and got back on his bike. "Off to Leignault," he said aloud to Snowy as he put the dog back in the modified perch on the back of the bike. "Thirty kilometres away."

xxx

He found the garage quiet easily: it was on a long stretch of road just before the town, on the south of the river. Outside, two mechanics were looking at an old Mustang. One was slid halfway under the car while the other, an older man with a thick moustache, was under the bonnet.

"Monsieur Fleurotte?" Tintin asked as he approached the older mechanic.

"Yes?" the mechanic said, turning to him. "That's me." He cast his eye over Tintin's bike. "Not bad," he said speculatively. "Looking for an upgrade? I don't do many bikes, mind."

"No," Tintin replied. "I'm a journalist. I'm making some enquiries about the accident this morning. The one that killed Monsieur Fourcart."

"Last night," Fleurotte said quickly. "It happened last night."

Tintin frowned. "Really? It said this morning in the paper."

"Got that wrong. Get a lot of things wrong. Which paper do you work for?"

"I'm freelance. What do you know about the accident?"

"Tragic," said Fleurotte heavily. He wiped his hands absently on an oil-stained rag. "Look, I already told the police everything I know: Monsieur Fourcart was one of my oldest customers. He actually brought the car in a few days ago to have a small oil leak repaired. Nothing major: just a seal replacement job."

"And apart from that the car was fine?"

"Perfect condition: it was almost new. No, to my way of thinking, Monsieur Fourcart must have been taken ill. He knew the roads here like the back of his hand: he grew up in this town, and when he opened the gallery a few years back he moved back here. Didn't like the city."

"Where did the accident happen?" Tintin asked.

"The exact place? I can show you that on a map. It's three kilometres from here, between Leignault and Marmont. You'll know it when you see it: the parapet is smashed and the car is still in the River Douillette. It's stuck in there until the tide goes down and they can get a winch to it."

"Thank you very much, Monsieur Fleurotte." Tintin shook hands with the mechanic. "You've been a great help."

"No problem," Fleurotte replied. He picked up a wrench and shook it at the motorbike. "Careful with that. They're not the safest mode of transport. If you're looking for a car, keep me in mind. I can get you a nice little run-around."

"Thank you, I'll bare that in mind," Tintin said with a smile. _When hell freezes over! I love my bike._

Tintin mounted his bike again and pulled away, heading towards Leignault. He'd need to go through the town to reach the bridge Fleurotte had spoken of. Behind him, a powerful black Mercedes pulled out of the lay-by and started to follow him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

_What the detective story is about, is not murder, but the restoration of order – __P. D. James_

The black Mercedes prowled the road behind the bike carefully, keeping it's distance at first and gaining ground gradually. They had their orders. Nash had mentioned the boy's name to their boss. The artist was worried that Tintin would be dragged into it, that he would discover what had been going on. What was still going on. The boss had smiled and nodded and told Nash to be calm, that if Fourcart didn't make the meeting with Tintin it would all go away. What was a journalist without a story?

Nash had been content with that, but the boss had known better. He had called the two men into his hotel suite and given them their orders: plant a bug and find out what was going on. Then, follow Tintin and discover what he was up to. If it looked like he was investigating, take him out. Make it quick and clean, and – above all – no witnesses.

"Now's our chance." The driver, a man in his late twenties with a crew-cut, sped up a little. The road was clear: it was just them and the motorbike now.

The passenger, a man named Grey, didn't like his current partner. Otis dressed like a common thug, while Grey preferred nice suits and overcoats. He looked like a business man, and a business man had no reason to be seen with a thug like Otis. "Do it," he murmured. He pulled a small handgun out of its shoulder holster, and caught Otis's worried glance.

"Don't worry about it," said Grey flippantly.

"I'm gonna hit him with a car," Otis said. "What do you need that for?"

"You ever seen a biker get hit by a car? It ain't pleasant and I don't like suffering. What? I'm a sensitive guy."

Otis doubted that. He knew that, for all his neatness and pride in dress, Grey was nothing more than a soldier for hire. He'd heard stories about Grey, and they weren't very pleasant. He rolled his eyes and put his foot down. Ahead of them, the bike crested the hill, and the figure on the back seemed to wave at someone. Cursing, Otis slowed as he realised two policemen were standing close to their car, a black and white Opel Astra. They waved back to Tintin, and ignored the Mercedes, which was now going the legal speed limit again.

They continued on, Otis cursing under his breath (another of Grey's reasons for hating him: the man swore like a sailor). A small van overtook from behind, and they pulled back until it passed the bike and shot off.

"This time," Grey said. "Get him now."

"Did you cut one?" Otis asked, his voice surprised.

"What?" Grey looked at him in genuine confusion. "Did I…? No! No, I didn't fart! What the hell?"

"Then what's that smell?"

Grey stopped and sniffed. It almost smelt like… like burning rubber…

With a loud _pop_ one of the wheels of the Mercedes blew out. The car careened from side to side while Otis fought to keep it under control. Hands shaking slightly, he drove it to the side of the road and parked. Ahead of them, Tintin had turned at the noise, but continued on when he'd seen the car was all right. Now, he was gone from sight.

"Well done," said Grey.

"That's not my fault," Otis snapped.

"Go change the tyre. And try not to swear too much."

Otis changed the tyre, but swore quite a lot.

xxx

It took a few more minutes, but Tintin reached the scene of the accident. Like Fleurette said, he'd recognised it straight away. A short brick bridge spanned the width of the River Douilette. Close to the beginning of it, on the Leignault side, the wall had been reduced to rubble where Fourcart's car had struck it. The brickwork looked old – it was crumbling in parts – and it hadn't offered any real barrier between the car and the river. Below, the truck of the car was visible over the swirling, chopping water, but the rest was a submerged dark shadow, lurking on the bottom.

Tintin parked his bike and let Snowy down. The dog gambolled away, stopping to mark his scent on a nearby tree while Tintin went to the edge of the bridge. He poked the outside of the rubble and looked over.

"Crumbs! What a drop!" he exclaimed. The car had hit the bridge at some speed, and somehow Fourcart had lost control, hit the wall and hit the river. It was a very, very long way down, and even from here Tintin could see some fire damage on the car. The paint he could see was scorched.

Turning, he wandered over the road, examining it, but something made him frown. "No skid marks," he murmured. He squatted down and thought about it. _You'd expect skid marks,_ he thought, _if Fourcart had lost control of the car._

He jumped when Snowy started barking. The dog was standing in the middle of the road, before the bridge began, barking furiously. Standing up, Tintin made his way over.

Skid marks: clear as day on the road.

"That's odd," he said quietly. "This almost looks as though a second car cut in front of the first, and forced it to stop. And unless I'm mistaken, that's oil."

A large pool of oil, almost dried into the hard road, stared forlornly up at him.

But Monsieur Fleurotte said it was just a small leak. Unless… Unless the car was stalled for some time. But if someone forced Fourcart to stop, then it might actually be murder. How did the car burn in the water? So if this is murder, then maybe the other 'accident', to Monastir, was murder too.

Deep in thought, Tintin didn't notice the Mercedes. Otis's hands gripped the wheel tightly. "Got you now," he muttered. He was covered in oil and sweating from the tyre change. Grey hadn't bothered to help: he'd just leaned against the car and smoked a cigarette, silently watching as Otis worked.

"Don't bloody miss," Grey warned.

Otis swung the car, veering towards Tintin, who was standing near the side of the road, still thinking. Suddenly, a large blue people-carrier trundled over the bridge. It tooted it's horn, startling Tintin from his reverie. He looked up to see the driver of the people-carrier mouth the words; _Look out!_ and felt a shocking breeze of wind as the Mercedes passed within inches of his back. He turned, wide-eyed, and watched the people-carrier tore off and the Mercedes screeched to a halt. The driver of the Mercedes was swearing an awful lot.

"What… what on earth?" Tintin watched, dumbfounded, as the driver, still swearing loudly, swung the car into reverse, and was rammed by a delivery truck that bore the legend _Tuite Suite_ above the logo of a stylized armchair. "That's a bit dangerous!"

Otis continued swearing, but managed to start the car. He put his foot down and they shot away.

"Bloody maniacs!" The truck driver jumped down from the cab and surveyed the damage to the front grill. "They must be absolutely daft!"

"Needs his eyes testing," Tintin agreed.

"Here, what's this?" The truck driver bent down and started to pick up something that looked an awful lot like a hand gun.

"Leave it," Tintin said loudly. He looked to where the Mercedes had gone, but it had disappeared from sight. "Don't touch it: there's probably fingerprints." He pulled his jacket off, pulled off his blue hoody, and carefully wrapped the gun in it. "I'll take it to the police," he said, dropping it the storage of his bike. "First of all," he added, grabbing up Snowy and pulling his jacket back on, "I'm going after those two."

"In the state they're in, they won't get far," the truck driver promised.

There was no mistake: they'd tried to kill him. _Why?_ Tintin wondered. _And how could they have known I was here? Monsieur Fleurotte knew, certainly. But would he be the type? Who else… Why, of course! That girl, whats-her-name…. Vandez-something. Vandezande. She told me where Garage de l'Avenir was, and she worked with Fourcart… _

Across the bridge, the road widened, with a truck stop and a petrol station on the far side of a long parking lot. A few trucks stood, gleaming in the bright sunlight beside the diner. Skid marks cut across the smooth asphalt of the parking lot, sliding up to the petrol pumps. A small group of men were standing around it. Tintin pulled in and parked, and made his way over to them.

He was just walking in front of the diner when he heard the gunshot. Instinctively, he dropped to the ground and protected his head with his arms. After a few seconds he chanced a quick look around, and saw a slack-jawed youth with brown hair staring at him. The youth gunned his motorcycle again, and it back-fired again. Feeling foolish, Tintin stood up and quickly walked away. "Smooth," he muttered. He didn't dare look at Snowy: sometimes, that dog was too expressive. He could almost _hear_ the animal sniggering.

He made his way over to the group of men. One of them was arguing with a teenager in a polyester uniform.

"Excuse me," he called, "but does anyone know where the men from that car went?" He pointed at the Mercedes.

"That's what I'd like to know!" The man who was arguing with the pump attendant rounded on Tintin. "They skidded in here, like a bat out of hell, and stole my bloody car! He" – here the man jabbed an accusatory finger at the teenager, who looked like he was on the verge of tears – "was supposed to be filling it up. I'm waiting for the bloody police now. Are you looking for them too?"

"I'll say: they just tried to kill me!"

"Oh thank god," the teenager moaned. "Here's the police now."

xxx

It took a while to straighten things out, and things had gotten really interesting when Tintin had whipped out the gun, and by the time he got back to Marlinspike the afternoon was gone and evening was getting on. The Captain was in the sitting room, cheering on a football team when Tintin collapsed on the sofa.

He didn't like telling the Captain stuff like this. Half the time he completely overreacted, and the other half he just scoffed and dismissed it out of hand.

"Anything interesting?" The Captain snapped the sound off when the match ended and the boring match analysis began.

Tintin studied his phone. "Yeah, a bit. Two men tried to kill me this afternoon."

"Blistering barnacles! What happened?"

Tintin explained. As he spoke, he watched the Captain's face. When the man reached for his pipe, he knew that it wasn't going to be an overreaction.

"It's like a cheap thriller," he said when Tintin finished. "Can't be true."

"It is," Tintin said flatly. He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. "It's an absolute fact. And one thing seems fairly obvious to me: Fourcart's assistant tipped those men off. She was the only one who knew I was going to see Fleurotte at that garage. Tomorrow, I shall pay another visit to her."

"I'm going with you this time," the Captain said firmly. "You never know. Especially with you."

"Thank you. Any calls?"

"Your agent."

That damned book swam to the front of Tintin's mind. With a growing feeling of horror, he forced all thought of it aside. It could wait: this was more important.

* * *

><p><strong>**author's note**<strong>

Please, please keep the feed-back coming: this is the first time I've ever written any fan-fiction and I'm finding all your advice and critics very constructive! Thank you!


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven**

_Every man is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies –__Jane Austin_

* * *

><p>Martine Vandezande looked up as the door to the gallery opened, and managed a warm smile as Tintin entered. Outside, a silver Audi was parked across the road. She could see a man with a beard, who looked vaguely familiar, reading a newspaper in the driver's seat. A small white dog was looking out of the window, its tail wagging and its eyes trained on Tintin. When the reporter closed the door to the gallery behind him, the dog barked once, before becoming distracted with an empty Styrofoam cup that rolled along the street.<p>

"Good morning, Mr Tintin," Martine said. "And to what do I owe this pleasure?" He was handsome, she thought, although a little baby-faced, and in some light his hair could be mistaken for almost-ginger. But he did have a lovely smile. It was amazing how at ease she had been with him yesterday, when he'd smiled at her.

"Not so much a pleasure, Miss Vandezande," he replied, his smile absent today.

"Oh?" She blinked, a little unsure of herself now. When she'd had time to think over their meeting yesterday, she had fancied that there had been a spark between them. Perhaps, she was wondering, it had all been in her head? She felt her cheeks start to blush.

"Mm. I'm becoming more and more convinced that Monsieur Fourcart's death wasn't an accident." He leaned against the counter and turned his smile on again. This time, it didn't reach his eyes, and made him look older; harder even.

She felt her breath catch in her throat. Unconsciously, she found herself fiddling with her necklace; a heavy gold pendant of two stylised letter E's back to back. "Mr Tintin…" she said, "you really believe…?"

"I do."

"How can you…?"

"Because yesterday, someone tried to kill me."

Her jaw dropped. She tried to say something, but nothing came out, so she closed her mouth instead and hoped her heart would start beating again soon.

"Yesterday, a car tried to run me over when I was out in Leignault. They had guns, Miss Vandezande, and I did not. I don't like being in situations where I need a gun, Miss Vandezande, because I don't carry a gun unless I need to. And when I need to, I usually end up using it, and I _really_ dislike doing that."

"This can't be true," she said faintly. "This can't be happening."

"Sadly, it is true. And only one person knew that I was going to Leignault yesterday."

"Who?" she asked, a feeling of dread starting to work its way up from her stomach to clutch at her throat.

"You."

She gripped the desk to steady herself. The whole world had shifted slightly, knocking off kilter. "Me?" she asked, uncertainly. She remembered the conversation they'd had: she remembered giving him the address of the garage in Leignault, and she remembered him saying he was going to go out there, but this couldn't be happening, could it? This wasn't real. It was a joke, and he'd laugh and she'd burst into tears and see the funny side of it later.

It _couldn__'__t_ be real.

"Yes, you." His smile, which had steadily turned more brittle as the conversation progressed, fell from his face completely. His dark eyes hardened, and seemed to bore into her. "Who did you tell?"

"What?"

"You must have told someone: who was it? Who did you tell I was going to Leignault? It's a simple question, Miss Vandezande, and I want an answer."

It was too much. She burst into tears without waiting for the joke to be revealed. "I didn't tell anyone!" she wailed. "Nobody asked about you! The only time you were mentioned was when Monsieur Nash told me that he didn't want to speak to any reporters, especially you! That's it, I swear!"

Tintin blinked and pulled back a little. _I __might __have __come __on __a __little __too __strong,_ he thought to himself ruefully. She seemed genuinely upset; completely devastated in fact. He looked around for a box of tissues, but couldn't find any. There were no shelves of any kind behind the desk, but a small security camera blinked at him from the wall above it.

_Of __course!_

"Why didn't I think of that first?" he groaned. Miss Vandezande looked up at him, still sobbing. "Who else is here, beside you and Monsieur Nash? Who else has access to the CCTV?"

"Nobody! Maybe the security company? I don't know! Honest!"

"Oh lord." He rubbed his hands over his face. "I made a mistake," he said, backing away to the door. "I'm terribly sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry."

"A-huh-huh-huh!" The force of her tears made her breath hitch.

"Sorry," he said lamely. "Really sorry about that. I'll just… I'll go."

"Puh-please do!" she cried.

The Captain folded his newspaper up and dropped it into the back seat as Tintin slid into the car. "You don't look happy," he said.

"I made her cry," Tintin replied grimly.

"Good for you. On purpose?"

"No, I think I made a mistake. I accused her of telling the bad guys where to find me."

"But you don't think she did?"

"There's cameras in the shop. And her tears were genuine: _trust __me_."

Haddock started to laugh. He couldn't help it: it took a lot to fluster Tintin. "Blistering barnacles, you're some kind of tit!"

"I am aware of this," Tintin said stiffly.

Still grinning, the Captain started the car. "Your phone kept buzzing all the time you were in there," he added as they pulled away from the kerb.

The unsettling feeling washed over Tintin again as he checked his phone. He'd tossed it into the side compartment of the door before entering the gallery. He had twenty seven missed calls, all from his agent. As he looked at the screen, it started to vibrate again, showing an incoming call from his old editor at _The __Daily __Reporter_. Guiltily, he denied the call and turned the phone off.

He'd foolishly answered one of the calls this morning, only to be reminded that the deadline was drawing closer, and to let him know that _The __Daily __Reporter_ was considering suing him. They said he'd deliberately hidden his age from them when he worked there, and had no intention of letting that little debacle be raised to public attention again. They'd come under a lot of heat when it had all come out, two years ago, for employing a child. For a while afterwards their circulation had fallen and they'd lost a few of their best writers, who'd jumped ship at the first sign of controversy. It was only now that they were really gaining their reputation back.

He could see it from their point of view, but his editor in _The __Daily __Reporter_ had known all along how old Tintin was, so sod him anyway.

"Anything to tell me?" the Captain asked.

"No," Tintin lied.

"Everything under control?"

"Yep."

"Good."

The car swung a left onto Rue Grétry, but the traffic held them up. By the time they'd reached the end of Grétry the lights had turned red and they had to wait to turn on to Boulevard Anspach. The Captain tutted under his breath, impatient to get out of the city before the lunchtime traffic really began. Beside him, Tintin fiddled with the radio and Snowy's ears. Ahead of them, on Anspach, the traffic crawled.

They had just neared the top of the jam when Tintin saw it: a huge poster in the window of a near-by curio shop. It was a dark poster. A man with dark glasses and a pointed beard, his clothing robe-like and a fez perched on his head (_"__Fez__'__s __are __cool __now!__"_). His hands were held out, as though he were holding something, and in that space was a logo depicting two letter E's back to back. His mind whirled. The car moved forward. The sudden jolt was all it took to push Tintin's brain back into gear.

"Stop!" he cried. Without explaining, he simply opened the car door and jumped out, dashing across the street to examine the poster properly. Behind him, he heard a volley of car horns and the Captain cursing.

By the time he got back to the car, the lights had switched back to red, and the Captain had moved on to more colourful curses.

"Sorry!" Tintin said brightly.

"Sorry! Why would you jump out of a car! Thundering typhoons, you've held the entire street up! _What_ was so important? _Oh, __stop __beeping __at __me!_" He turned around and started to swear at the cars behind them.

"What are you doing this evening?" Tintin asked. "Any plans?"

"Yes: I'm kicking you out and having a normal life."

"There's a show on tonight, by some mystic. Endaddine Akass."

"And?" The lights changed again, and the Captain pulled onto Boulevard Anspach.

"I want to go. Can you drop me at the box office?"

"Endaddine Akass?" The Captain mulled the name over for a moment. "Isn't he the fellow Castafiore was raving about?"

"Yes, he magnetizes people." They looked at each other and shrugged.

"Why not?" the Captain asked with a sigh. "If nothing else, it'll be good for a laugh."

"Be good, Captain," Tintin warned. "I want to remain as inconspicuous as possible."

"Is this all part of your investigation?" the Captain asked as he pulled onto Rue Auguste Orts.

"Partly. But mainly because I don't want people to think I've been suckered into this magnetizing crap."

The Captain laughed, and drove towards Ticketmaster.


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight**

_Here's something to think about: how come you never see a headline like "Psychic wins lottery"? – Jay Leno_

* * *

><p>Endaddine Akass, Tintin thought, was a complete fraud. He was using pseudo-science to sell a concept to wealthy idiots. They clearly had more money than sense, and were dazzled with a couple of fake science-y terms and Latin sounding words. Throw in 'environmental awareness' and 'at-one-ment' and Akass had them eating out of his hands, and showering him with money.<p>

What a fraud. _And __what __a __genius!_

All he had done was walk out on stage and chant; "Oooooouuuuuuuuuuummmmmm!" over and over (here, the Captain had almost choked on a boiled sweet, and had to be noisily slapped on the back for a good minute and a half), and then spout some clap-trap about the universe, and how he could tap it's power to magnetize people for a year, making them attract good luck like a magnet (here, the Captain had burst out laughing, and attempted to turn it into a fake cough, but managed instead to turn it in to a sneezing fit, which led to a giggling fit – it was remarkable: his friends were always mentioning that Tintin was lucky for not having parents to embarrass him. Then they spent a public evening with the Captain, and offered Tintin their condolences later).

So Akass was a fraud, but he was a powerful one. Tintin had thought he would be out of place in such a meeting, but his hadn't been the only famous face there, and it wasn't even the most famous. He had seen two European models and their entourage of 'socialites', a couple of pretentious writers, a German pop star and her footballer boyfriend, and a member of the extended Royal Family of Belgium.

And ever present at the mystics side were his own entourage: men in dark suits that stood close to Akass at all times. Their jackets hadn't been big enough to hide the bulge at their waist: they had all been carrying guns.

Pretty dangerous, for a mystic.

He shelved that thought. There was no point trying to unravel this from Akass's side: the man was an unknown quantity, and there was nothing linking him to Fourcart, besides Bianca Castafiore and Ms Vandezande both being fans of him.

More promising was the CCTV footage. It was more likely that someone – probably someone in close proximity to the gallery – had seen the footage and followed him out to Leignault. They would have to be close to the gallery: sure, it was possible to spy on people remotely, but a lot of the time you had to be really close to them for it to work properly. That meant that whoever was receiving the footage would have to be in another of the buildings along that stretch of road. Most of them were stores and wine-bars, but there were apartments over the shops.

He also knew one more thing: two of Akass's entourage were familiar. He hadn't been able to place them for a while, and it had bothered him for most of the evening, niggling at him until he realised that he had seen them before: they were driving the car that had almost ran him over, out by Leignault.

So what exactly was Akass's interest in this? Where did he fit in?

xxx

He ignored the gallery this time: he had no need to go back there, and he doubted Martine Vandezande would be too thrilled to see him. Armed with a clipboard and a disarming smile, Tintin went straight to the brown door between the gallery and the next-door beauty salon, and rang the first bell.

"Fisk; Accountants," a bored voice replied from the speaker.

_Perfect! _"Delivery for Mr Fisk," Tintin replied.

"Come in," the voice said, a shade above nonplussed.

The door buzzed open and Tintin went in. Fisk's door was immediately on his right. It was still closed, but he could hear high-heeled shoes clip-clopping their way over. He darted for the stairs and, taking them two at a time, disappeared onto the next level and stood, silently, until the receptionist opened the door, swore, and slammed it shut again.

Sniggering, he made his way to the door labelled "1a" and rang the doorbell, plastering an amicable grin onto his face. "Good morning!" he said brightly as the door opened to reveal a young woman, a small girl balanced on her hip. "I'm a reporter for one of the local newspapers, and I was wondering if you had time to take part in a survey?"

"Oh!" the woman said. She looked at him curiously. "What sort of survey?"

"The environment," he replied without missing a beat. "There's a new bill up in front of the European Commission next week, and we were wondering exactly how many people really understand what it's about."

"Right. Er. Ok."

He rattled off a few easy questions, about her carbon number and her transportation habits and heating bills. She answered with a grin, and he made her feel clever and at ease. Then he continued to the next door, and the next, and the next, until he found himself bounding up the stairs and starting on the third floor.

The first door simply told him where to go (and it wasn't very pleasant and, most likely, physically impossible) but the second door was _very_ revealing.

"Hello, sir," Tintin said as the door was opened. His smile didn't falter for a second. "I'm conducting a survey about the environment and the European Commission's proposed changes to the law-"

"I don't care," the man said. He slammed the door closed and Tintin blinked and backed away.

xxx

Grey stood at the window, his mobile phone pressed to his ear. He carefully leaned forward and twitched the curtains to get a better view. "He's just left," he said in a low voice. Behind him, Otis paced the room nervously.

Grey listened to the voice on the other end of the phone closely. "Some crap about a survey…. Oh, of course he knows. He hid it well… We'll take care of it, boss… As soon as possible. Consider it done."

xxx

Tintin smiled as he pushed open the door of the gallery. His eyes flicked quickly to the camera above the desk before focusing on Ms Vandezande. "Good afternoon, Ms Martine," he said. "I came to apologise. I truly am sorry about what happened yesterday."

She narrowed her eyes at him, and nodded stiffly. "Don't mention it," she said woodenly.

"No, it was boorish of me," he said, taking another step towards her. She lifted a stack of papers to her chest, as though she was using them as a shield. "I had no right to treat you so abominably. I want to tell you that by this evening, I will have the criminal unmasked. I have a rendezvous with an informer of mine at eight o'clock, at the old Fréaux factory, near Moulinsart. You know it? It's the one they're knocking down."

She looked at him as though he were crazy. "Christ, Tintin, be careful!"

"Don't worry about me," Tintin said, grinning up at the camera. "I was told these men are dorks."

xxx

"Dorks, are we?" Otis hissed. He stabbed his cigarette into the ashtray, grinding it until it shredded. "Dorks? Us?"

"You're such a dork," Grey said.

xxx

The old Fréaux factory was already half-ruined. Kids had long ago smashed every window they could reach, while more adventurous teens had managed to break in and finish off the windows on the upper levels. Now, rusted machines clung to the weeds in the overgrown field, and the cavernous floor of the old factory echoed stonily.

Tintin crouched low behind the wall of what had once been the foreman's office. The glass part, which had reached from about waist-high to the ceiling, lay in shards on either side of the wall. He ignored the tell-tale tingle in his right foot, which meant a serious case of cramp was about to come on, and concentrated on keeping his breathing as silent as possible.

He heard the crunch of gravel as a car drove up the rutted lane to the factory. Silence, then the slam of doors as people – at least two – got out. Their feet were a lot quieter outside, walking on mainly weeds and grass, but once they reached the machine-floor, now gutted of it's iron and fixings, their hard soles rang out eerily through the still, almost dead air.

The men stopped.

"Do you hear anything?" one asked, his voice nervous.

"Not yet," the other replied. His voice was calm and perfectly cool. Tintin risked a look over the wall, but both men were in the shadows cast by the evening sun shining through so many shattered windows. The floor was cast in a checkerboard of light and dark.

"There!" One – the shorter one in the hoodie and black leather jacket – seized his companion's arm and pointed at Tintin.

_Shit! I've been seen! _

He darted forward, using his crouch to give him more momentum, like a sprinter. He ignored the pins-and-needles shooting through his cramping foot, and pounded across the concrete floor. He heard two more shouts, but he couldn't make out any words, before the shooting started.

A volley of shots rang out. For a moment, he thought that he'd been lucky – he was very lucky sometimes – but then it felt as though someone had just kicked him in the back. His hip bucked forward as a bullet ripped into him, and he cried out once, roughly, before collapsing to the ground. Pain blossomed and he pressed his hands to where the blood was flowing too freely. A moment later, the blackness took him.


	9. Chapter 9

Nine

If you want to recapture your youth, cut off his allowance – Al Bernstein

Late-night phone calls made the Captain's blood freeze. It was a visceral reaction, and one that had only appeared in the years that he'd known Tintin, but it was a reaction that had intensified and gotten worse when Tintin had finally moved into Marlinspike Hall. Where as before, late-night phone calls were usually drunk friends talking rubbish, or remembering the good ol' days, now they heralded bad news, like a crow on the eve of battle. He would be sitting in his chair, or perhaps asleep in bed, and the phone would begin to ring. For a moment, he would feel annoyed. Who would ring this late? he would ask.

Then he would remember.

Tintin. Car accident? Drunk-driver? Guns? Knife? Random mugging or practiced vendetta? Kidnapped or murdered? A thousand scenarios would struggle for dominance as he grasped the phone and tentatively answered.

Usually, it would be a plea for help. "The last bus is gone, and we're too poor to get a taxi!" "I'm the designated driver, but I don't have a car." "Please pick me up: I'm cold and a bit tipsy!"

Other times it had been worse, and it was these phone calls that the Captain feared. The "We're sorry, but there's been an accident" or the "We're not sure what happened, but he's missing" calls. They lurked, waiting and grinning at his fear, in the shadows when the phone rang at night.

Now, late Saturday afternoon and pulling into the long drive at the Hall, the Captain figured that it hadn't been the _worst_ Friday night.

The call had come at half past eight in the evening. He'd listened carefully as one of the Thompson's told him that Tintin had been shot. He'd been very calm, and asked – in a very calm way – which hospital was he going to? He'd listened, put the phone down, collected his car-keys, shooed Snowy from the front door, given up and let Snowy get into the car, and then had a mini heart attack. He'd sat in the car for a good five minutes, just parked in the drive-way, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles went white, and grinding his teeth. Then, when he was able to, he drove to the hospital.

By the time he'd reached CHU Brugmann, Tintin was already in surgery. Both Thompsons met the Captain outside the hospital and explained what had happened: Tintin asked them to meet him outside the old factory in Moulinsart before eight o'clock, but they'd been late. They'd been held up in traffic, to be precise, and hadn't made it to the meeting until a little after eight. They'd found Tintin inside the factory on his own; his bike had been hidden in some bushes close by. They'd called the ambulance and as soon as they knew what hospital he was being taken to, they'd called the Captain.

Surgery had taken a few hours. Tintin had been shot in the hip of all places. The bullet had taken a small chunk of bone with it, but he was alive and kicking and, to the Captain's annoyance, able to sign himself out on Saturday afternoon.

"You should have stayed in hospital," the Captain grumbled as the car swung into the garage. For a brief moment, he considered ramming Tintin's motorbike. He wouldn't be able to get into trouble if he wasn't mobile. Luckily, sanity won out and he simply parked the car and glared at Tintin.

Tintin smiled back tiredly. "Worth it," he said. "The two guys that shot me are the same two that tried to run me over. At least one of them is living in a flat above the gallery, and works for Endaddine Akass."

"And getting shot to find that out was worth it?"

"I needed evidence. Now I have it."

"You're an idiot." The Captain opened the car door and got out. With a stiff groan, Tintin followed suit, his face lighting up when he heard the frenzied barking growing closer.

"Snowy!" he called. "Where's my big boy? Where's my big, bad boy?"

"I hope you're well enough to walk him," the Captain said as Snowy galloped into the garage and flung himself at Tintin. "You're not getting him all hyper and leaving him to me, are you?"

"No," Tintin said guiltily. He picked up Snowy and tried to balance him in such a way that his scrabbling paws couldn't hit against his injured hip.

"Liar."

"No, this is research."

Together they left the garage, pausing so that the Captain could slide the door shut. "Research?" he asked flatly.

"Yes. How much does your pet love you."

"Oh, I see. This is a very scientific piece of research, I take it?"

"Very. The findings are explosive."

"Oh? And what are your findings?"

"My dog loves me very much, while your cat hates you."

They entered the Hall from the back, using the French windows that led to a sumptuous sun room. The cat was snoozing on one of the wicker chairs. She looked up as they entered but decided none of them was carrying food and put her head back down. Snowy, on the other hand, was on the floor and still dancing around Tintin's legs.

"I can't fault you on your research," the Captain said glumly.

"It's a sad life," Tintin said consolingly.

"Feed him." The Captain pointed at Snowy. "I'm going to walk him soon: this stupid gallery thing is on tonight and I promised Ramó Nash I'd attend. I saw him yesterday, when he came to pick up that awful sculpture."

"You're going to that?" Tintin looked up, his tiredness replaced with a new feeling of alertness. "What time?"

The Captain groaned. "Oh, come on! Blistering barnacles, Tintin, you just got _shot!_ Most people would take a day off!"

"I don't like mysteries, and I don't like it when people try to kill me! I sort of want to get to the bottom of this before they finish me off!"

"Well, maybe if you stop putting yourself in danger" –

"Danger my arse! You buy a disgusting sculpture, give my phone number to a strange man, and this is my fault?" The argument continued to the kitchen, where Tintin realised he couldn't stoop down to pick up Snowy's food bowl.

"Thundering typhoons, Tintin, how was I supposed to know that giving your number to someone would get them killed, and lead to a couple of attempts on your life? I'm not psychic! Need a hand?"

"Yes please, I've just been shot," Tintin snapped, giving up trying to reach for the food bowl.

"I know! That's why I'm trying to convince you to shut up and sit down for the night! Do you _want_ to go to this thing? Honestly? Do you think they'll take another shot at you in a crowded gallery?"

"No," Tintin said uncertainly, "but I could…"

"What? Admire the art? Look at the evening dresses? Compare suits with other guys?" the Captain snapped. He shovelled half a tin of Chum into the food bowl and set it back on the floor for Snowy. "What could you possibly do? And keep in mind that you've just been shot, so the chances of a high-speed chase on foot is right out."

"You have a car," Tintin pointed out.

"And? You think I'm leaving a pleasant evening of free food and wine to drive your ass around Brussels in a high-speed chase?" They made their way to the living room, where Tintin gratefully dropped onto the couch, grimacing at the pain in his side.

"Need a painkiller?" the Captain asked sympathetically.

"Maybe later. What happened in _Home__and__Away_ last night?"

"Indy wasn't in it. Sorry." The Captain sat heavily into his favourite chair and blew out a noisy sigh. "Of course, you know what's going to happen, don't you?"

"She leaves Romeo and he gets with her half-sister?"

"Not in _Home__and__Away_! Blistering barnacles, I mean with you getting shot!"

"Oh. Fair enough. No. What's going to happen?" Snowy nosed the door open and jumped up onto the couch beside Tintin, trying to snuggle into him but bumping against his injured hip. With a hiss, Tintin picked up the dog and placed him in his lap. Happy, Snowy curled up and started to lick Tintin's fingers.

"It's a good job it happened so late on a Friday," the Captain said glumly. "We have two days before child services turn up asking what happened. What am I supposed to tell them?"

"That I have a job, and I was doing it?" Tintin asked. "It's not like this is the first time I've been shot."

"No, but it's only the second time you've been shot after you started living here. Good god, I can't believe I've said that like it's a good thing." The Captain ran his hand over his face tiredly. "They'll show up, all smiles and sympathy, and do one of their 'assessments'. Then they'll figure it out."

"Figure what out?" Tintin asked, alarmed.

"That I have no idea what I'm doing." The Captain sat back and shuddered. "You'll end up back in a children's home. I'll end up with a nice, peaceful life… Actually, that doesn't sound too bad." He brightened up considerably. "No running around, flying off to different countries or facing down bad-guys!"

"Sounds awful," Tintin moaned. "Very tedious."

"I like tedious. Tedium is my middle name."

"I thought it was Francis? Well, if child services are going to send me away on Monday, I might as well live it up tonight and go to the gallery." Tintin turned his beaming smile on the Captain. "In for a penny, in for a pound, no?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Ten**

_It was a dark and stormy nightmare - Neil Gaiman_

* * *

><p>He was standing in a patch of light. To his right, he could see a wall made of thick, grey bricks. In front and behind him he could see only a thick blackness beyond the small halo of light that surrounded him. Above him there hung a small, bare bulb that hummed lightly.<p>

He didn't know how long he had been here, but he thought that it must be some time. He didn't recognise this place, nor could he remember where he was or how he had arrived here. His stomach jittered unpleasantly, and a feeling of trepidation rose up from his toes and spread out over his whole body. His knees screamed with tension and he realised that his whole body was on edge.

He had no idea how to get out of here, but the longer he stood there, under the bare bulb, the more he realised he would have to make a move in some direction. He looked longingly up at the bulb, wishing he could stay in its glow. He felt safe here, and he had the strange feeling that there was something in the dark, something that he couldn't see, but it could see him.

Fear bloomed, fresh and full and oddly satisfying. His heart began to beat a little faster and when he tried to take a step forward his feet refused. His brain was telling him that moving was a Bad Idea.

He closed his eyes and stepped forward. When he opened them, he was on the very edge of the light. Ahead of him was a solid-feeling wall of dark. He tentatively raised his hand and pushed it into the dark, almost expecting to feel it as the dark gave way. Instead, the air felt cold, and that was all. With a loud inhalation, he took another step forward into the dark.

Immediately behind him, the light winked off and the space he was standing in lit up as another winked on. Surprised, he looked up and saw another bare bulb overhead. _The whole… Corridor? Must be lined with them_, he thought. Well, it was a welcome thought, and he took another few steps forward. Again, the light winked off and was replaced almost instantly wherever he walked. Screwing up his courage, he set off.

He wandered for a while – time seemed to act strange here: it couldn't have been more than a few minutes, but it seemed like hours – but the corridor was straight and still as dark as it ever had been. The only light seemed to be following him around, illuminating him but leaving the rest of the place in the dark. He passed no doors and saw no evidence of anyone else.

He stopped walking and looked around, his fear steadily being replaced with confusion and annoyance. He still couldn't shake the unsettled feeling in his stomach.

He stiffened. Was that a noise behind him? Turning quickly he peered into the dark, but he couldn't see anything. He wasn't even sure he'd heard anything: just a whisper, the promise of a silent foot-fall.

He tried to make his breathing as quiet as possible while he scanned the dark. The fear was coming back, and his stomach started to churn unpleasantly. After a few tense moments he took another careful step in the direction he had been headed, careful to keep one eye over his shoulder. Again, the light winked off and then back on, moving to keep up with him, and he realised that anything hidden in the dark around him could see him perfectly. He reached up and slapped it with a closed fist. The glass shattered and a small jolt of power surged blue before the light was plunged out. Silently, Tintin moved forward and pressed his back to the wall. As soon as he reached a new position, the light overhead winked back on. He cursed quietly and moved back to his old position, where the bulb was broken.

The first thing he noticed was the small fact that the light came back on; the bulb was whole and unbroken.

The second was the figure.

He froze and stared at her. She was, he realised, one of the girls from the Captain's horrible sculpture. She was the one on the left, he thought. The one with the weary face and the look of abysmal acceptance in her eyes. She stood, forlorn and completely still, with one hand reaching out. When his breathing started again, Tintin moved slightly to examine her. She looked like a statue. He reached out and brushed his fingertips against her stiff hand, and she felt as cold and hard as granite.

When he took a step backwards, he noticed something else. Or rather, he remembered a very important fact: the sculpture had included a second girl.

Something cold and clammy took hold of his shoulder. He turned and screamed -

- and sat up in bed, the scream dying on his lips. Snowy was barking and the room was spinning. He reached out a shaky hand and snapped on his lamp. The sudden, jerky movement made his hip cry out in pain and he ruthlessly swallowed the wave of nausea that washed over him.

_Too late!_

Shooing Snowy, who was still making a nervous clamour, Tintin dashed to his en-suite bathroom and dropped to his knees in front of the toilet. The next few minutes were noisy and contained the ghosts of a meal he didn't remember eating. As he sat back blearily and flushed the toilet he heard his bedroom door fly open and hit his dresser.

"What is it?" the Captain shouted. "What's going on?"

Tintin leaned back and looked into his room. The Captain, dressed in his pyjamas, was standing in the middle of the room looking confused and sleepy. "What?" Tintin asked weakly.

"You screamed," the Captain said urgently. "What's wrong?"

"Oh. A nightmare." Tintin stood up, his legs still shaking, and swallowed a glass of water. "Then I got sick. I feel terrible."

"I'm not surprised: you were very drunk last night," the Captain replied ruefully.

"I was?" Tintin was surprised. He didn't remember getting drunk. It happened so rarely that he was usually able to remember the events leading up to it.

_Ramó Nash handed him a glass of wine. "One glass can't hurt, can it?" _

"Huh," said Tintin. He remembered having that glass of wine, but no more than that.

xxx

Against all odds, it had been a nice evening. The gallery was bright and welcoming, Miss Martine had been on-hand all evening, arranging sales and talking to buyers and generally taking over from Monsieur Fourcart, and the guests weren't nearly as pretentious as Tintin had feared. Yes, there was the occasional thirty-odd year old man with a floppy woollen hat and a v-neck t-shirt that showed off most of their sunken chest, and some of the women had been wearing luminous bows in their hair as ironic statements of something-or-other, but for the most part it was well-to-do, pleasant people looking to unwind after a hard week, or avid collectors sizing up the Next Big Thing.

The Captain had looked snazzy and proper in a black suit and tie, while Tintin had worn a casual-looking grey suit with no tie, and managed to pull off shabby-chic with aplomb. Snowy had been left at home, per the gallery's rules.

Everything was orderly and nice, and the champagne had flowed from an extravagant fountain on a white-covered table bedecked with flowers that had been cleverly arranged to make a tableau of little women going about their daily lives.

"Champagne, sir?" a waiter had asked.

"No thanks," Tintin had replied politely.

"Not having a tipple?" the Captain asked, staring longingly after the waiter, who was walking away with his silver platter of goblets. He really, really wished that Calculus would come up with a cure to his enforced sobriety soon…

"Not a good idea," Tintin murmured.

"In case someone tries to take another shot at you?" the Captain scoffed.

"No. You should never drink while on medication." Tintin shot him a superior smirk and drifted away. "I'm going to mingle. Try not to destroy anything."

"Try not to get killed."

Tintin skirted the groups of people that had formed around a few of the sculptures, noticing that the Captain had gotten sucked into the small knot around the letter H.

The sculptures had been arranged, unsurprisingly, in alphabetical order. They were all similar: the clear casing of the letter with a girl, or two girls, twisting to form the inner letter. All the girls had been modelled with injuries, from hair-line fractures to missing teeth bared in a fearful snarl; from broken fingers and toes that marred the flow of their bodies to gaping cuts in their throats that appeared like a second smile.

Rising above the soft music that was being piped over the loudspeakers was the gentle hum of the room around him. He heard snatches of conversations: points about the individual pieces and the sculpting technique used to create the girls, to general news about family and shared friends. He drifted through it, watching and listening, discarding people and information as useless, until he reached the back of the gallery. Miss Martine had seen him a few minutes after his arrival. She'd managed a grimace of a smile and to hiss at him to behave and not cause any trouble.

He could see her now. She was over by the desk, her head bent as she quickly wrote something down. A woman in an elegant black dress was talking to her, probably buying one of the pieces. Tintin stood nonchalantly beside the wooden door. Nobody was looking at him, too absorbed in the gallery and its work while the waiters concentrated on topping up wine and champagne glasses. Quickly, Tintin opened the door and slid into the back room.

The room was mostly in darkness. A strong, chemical scent stung his nostrils. Plunging his hands into his pants pockets, he strolled in and looked around. The walls were lined with metal shelving. Pictures and other, smaller works of art were stored there, waiting for the exhibition to finish before going back into the main gallery. He ran his finger over one of the shelves, careful not to knock against the vase that sat there, and saw that there was no dust. Someone, probably Miss Martine, had cleaned here recently. He supposed that it was one of her jobs.

At the very back of the room stood one of Ramó Nash's works. It was the one the Captain had described to him; the glacial 'Mother'. Tintin paused underneath it and looked up. There was no hiding the fact that the subject was very beautiful. Her face was serene and youthful; a young woman in the bloom of her life, and she was dressed less provocatively than the other works in a long white summer dress decorated with tiny red flowers along the hem. Her hair was blonde with a tinge of reddish highlights.

"She is beautiful, no?" a quiet voice behind him said.

Tintin jumped, and came back to reality. With a start, he realised he had brought his hand up and was reaching out to touch the sculpture. He blushed like a small child caught red-handed, and shoved his hand back into his pocket. Turning, he saw a short man with light hair leaning against the door. He wore a plain black t-shirt and dark trousers with black-and-white Converse training shoes.

"She is beautiful, your mother," the man said. He gestured to the sculpture.

"The artist is to be congratulated," Tintin said carefully. _In __the __face.__With __a __chair,_ he added silently.

"Then I thank you," said the man with a small smile. "I am the artist."

"Ah, Monsieur Nash," said Tintin. He looked again; the man was as the Captain described him: short – barely taller than Tintin himself, who wasn't exactly over-burdened in the height department – slightly scruffy and in possession of a pair of sardonic eyebrows.

"And you are Tintin," said Nash. He held out his hand, and Tintin shook it. "It is a pleasure."

"Really? You told Ms Vandezande that you didn't want to talk to me."

Nash cocked his head. "When was this?" he asked.

"When Monsieur Fourcart died."

"Ah." The artist shook his head. "Don't take that personally: I didn't wish to speak with anyone. He was one of my dearest friends. Certainly my oldest, and certainly my partner in crime." He gave a twisted smile at that thought, his eyes distant. "I always thought he'd be around," he said softly. "_*****__Au __besoin __on __connaït __l__'__ami_, as they say_._ Although I think he was a better friend to me than I realised."

Tintin raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure that's not true," he said.

"Hm. You'd be surprised." Nash shook himself from his melancholy and looked closely at Tintin. "I heard you got shot yesterday. You look well."

"Oh. I didn't know it was so widely known."

"Why not? It was in the papers this morning."

"I didn't see the papers," Tintin replied. "You can't trust them, anyway."

"Of course," Nash said with a laugh. "Who likes reporters, anyway?"

"Nobody," Tintin said soberly. "We're terrible people."

"I must admit, I'm surprised to see you here." Nash moved passed Tintin and used his hand to swipe at a smudge on Mother's clear casing. "I didn't think you wrote about such things as art or galleries."

"I don't," Tintin admitted. "I'm here for pleasure. You know my guardian, Captain Haddock, bought one of your pieces?"

Nash stiffened. "Yes," he said in a low voice. "I liberated them yesterday from that… that _room_ he had stashed them in."

"Them?" Tintin asked curiously.

"Yes: Hele and Halka. The two girls inside the case," Nash explained.

"Ah. Halka? That's a Polish name, isn't it? I don't recognise the other."

"Hele. It's Estonian. Well, Greek by way of Estonia." Nash shrugged. "I name them. I can't help it. I love them all, in my own way." He rested his hand against Mother and sighed. "And here is the one I love the most. She was my first, and my favourite."

"When did you make her?" Tintin stepped back and looked up at the sculpture. "It's strange," he said suddenly, before Nash could answer, "but I almost feel as though I know her. Isn't that odd?" He laughed nervously.

Nash eyed him speculatively. "I hear that a lot," he replied. "Someone will see her and tell me of their sister, or their cousin, or their friend… someone they haven't seen for a while, and how she looks like Mother. I hear their tale of how this girl fell from grace, or simply disappeared. I tell them to pick up the phone and get in touch. Too much is lost when relationships die. I know what I'm talking about: I lost my wife and child many years ago. I drove them out of my life, and now I am alone. Truly alone, now that Fourcart is dead. So tell me," he added, making his voice lighter, "why you are here, in this storeroom, instead of at my grand opus? This is, after all, the pinnacle of my career. Or so I am told."

"Then why aren't you out there?" Tintin asked.

"These things bore me. Modern art is mostly wank, and the people that like it mostly wankers. And I say this as a modern artist."

"You're right," Tintin agreed. "I say this as a fan of art."

"But not modern art."

"No, not modern art."

"I've seen some of your photographs. You have a good eye."

"Thank you!" Tintin said, pleased. "That means a lot, coming from someone who… er…"

"Creates modern wank?" Nash supplied.

"Exactly! Oh, no, hang on, that's not what I" –

"Think nothing of it," Nash said with a wave of his hand. "And in return, I shall continue to hate reporters."

Behind them, the door opened and Martine Vandezande came in. "There you are," she said, sounding relieved. "Monsieur, someone wants to talk to you about one of the pieces..." Her eyes fell on Tintin, and she scowled. "What are you doing back here?" she demanded.

"He's here at my request," Nash said quickly. "I'll be back in a moment, Mr Tintin." Tintin nodded and waited until the artist and Martine had left before turning back to Mother.

It was jarring. He didn't know if she really was a scathing indictment of modern attitudes towards women, but he knew that she made him feel odd. There was something about her: she looked as though she were real; she really _did_. She could have simply been resting; standing against a counter and taking a breather before starting on the cleaning perhaps, or simply having a quiet think. Her only visible wounds were the handprints around her neck and the small amount of blood on her temple, staining her blonde hair. In fact, in the darkened and empty room, among the forgotten paintings and old vases, it seemed as though she would come to life at any second. He could almost see it. First, her eyes would blink then come back into focus. Then, she would look at him…

The door reopened and Nash came back. He was carrying a glass of wine and a bottle of beer. He held the wine out to Tintin. "For you," he said. "Enjoy your night of pleasure."

"Ah, I don't drink wine," Tintin said regretfully.

"You don't?" Nash looked genuinely shocked.

"Well, sometimes. But I'm taking painkillers and they're very strong," Tintin explained.

"Of course," Nash said. He held out the glass of wine. "One glass can't hurt, can it?"

"I don't suppose so," Tintin said. He took the glass.

"You said the Captain was your guardian. You are an orphan?"

xxx

"It was about ten o'clock when I found you," the Captain said, once Tintin had finished talking. They were both in the bathroom. Tintin was still stationed at the toilet, looking pitiful and hung-over, while the Captain was sitting on the side of the bath, his chin resting on one fist. "Poor Nash was trying to get you outside. You were twisted."

"Twisted?" Tintin said weakly.

"Uh-huh. Completely pissed and staggering. It was almost funny, except he tried to get you to the front door by walking you past a bunch of journalists."

"Oh no." Tintin straightened up and looked at the Captain in horror. "Don't say that."

The Captain shrugged. "Well, all of Belgium – and most of Europe – knows how you feel about modern art."

"Oh no. Nooooo."

"Yup. The word 'wank' was mentioned several times."

Tintin hid his face in his hands. "Oh, no, no, no! What time is it?"

"Too late to stop it from being printed, I'd say. Although, with luck, it'll appear in the Sunday arts supplements and nobody else will notice it." He stopped and thought for a second. "Wait. Tintin drunk and raving and calling people rude names? Never mind: it'll be all over the news tomorrow."

"Oh god!" Tintin leaned over the toilet and started to retch again. As if on cue, his mobile phone began to ring and vibrate over his dresser. "I can't speak to anyone," he said pleadingly.

The Captain rolled his eyes. Some days, he felt more like an unpaid personal assistant or chauffeur. He went into the bedroom and answered the phone, returning to lean on the bathroom floor and glare at Tintin.

"Ah, Flipke," he said. Tintin looked marginally relieved: Flipke had been his agent for the last two years, and was a damned good one. "He's alive, and I've just told him… No, he's taking it all right. I mean, he's getting sick but that could be the drink… Yes, I'll tell him that… Oh? I see… When?... How much?... Huh. I'll tell him that, too." He hung up the phone and tossed it behind him, where it landed on the bed. "You're being sued," he said.

"Oh," said Tintin.

"_The __Daily __Reporter_ is suing you. For fraud. They want the full rights to the articles you wrote while you were working for them, and 80% of the profits from your new book."

_Is __it __too __late __to __crawl __back __in to __bed?_ Tintin thought. It was an appealing thought: to pull the covers back over his head and pretend that the world had gone away. Just for a day.

"What's the name of that editor?" the Captain asked. "The one at _The __Daily __Reporter_."

"Henri De Villars?"

"That's the one. He and I need to have a little conversation. Cheer up, Tintin. So you're hung-over, humiliated and being sued? Worse things have happened than that!"

Tintin groaned and ducked back into the toilet. Sure, worse things had happened, but he was having a hard time remembering them at the moment.

* * *

><p>*Used as "<em>A friend in need is a friend indeed"<em> in English


	11. Chapter 11

**Eleven**

_People are more violently opposed to fur than leather because it's safer to harass rich women than motorcycle gangs – Alexei Sayle_

* * *

><p>Tintin hid in his room for most of the day, blasting his way through a horde of darkspawn and venting his frustration on the broodmother. He never bothered to play video games anywhere other than his room any more: the Captain had an awful habit of pretending to be reading, while secretly he was watching the action on-screen. Then, during a particularly nasty battle, he'd start rooting for the other guy, and Tintin was sick of having his concentration ruined with shouts of <em>"<em>_Go __on, __Ezio, __fall! __Fall! __Yeeeeaaaaah!__" _or _"__Kill __him, __Loghain! __Kill __Alistair __in __the __face!__" _He still played Grand Theft Auto in front of the Captain though, although those games quickly descended into random acts of violence, or timing each other to see how long they could keep evading the police with the maximum number of _'__wanted__'_ stars.

He'd paused the game a while ago, when the Captain had finally got through to the dreaded Henri De Villars, and tried to listen in to the conversation, but – for once – most of it had been rather civil, and the only raised voice he'd heard was the Captain losing his cool and shouting _"__No! __You __listen __to __me! __Blistering __barnacles, __I __know __where __you __live, __you __horrible __little __man! __Don__'__t __make __me __fly __up __there!__"_ Then everything had gone quiet again, so Tintin had gone back to playing his game.

Eventually, the door to his room opened and the Captain came in. He lay down on the bed, his back against the headboard, and watched Tintin, who was sitting on the armchair facing the television and Playstation 3.

"Any luck?" Tintin asked cautiously.

"I don't like that man," the Captain replied. Snowy jumped up to join him, snuffling at his hands until the Captain had to spread them wide to show the dog that he hadn't come baring treats.

Tintin shrugged. "He's not so bad." He was at a critical point in the game now. He was playing on nightmare difficulty, and had used his last mana potion to resurrect Sten. The broodmother was almost dead though, and Sten was a tank of a character.

"He's a swine," the Captain said. "Happily, I was able to persuade him to my point of view. He's faxing some documents over to Flipke. Once they're signed, all of your early work belongs to you. And that includes most of the good stuff you wrote under Jack Keller's name."

Jack Keller had been another journalist at _The __Reporter_. Once, he'd been a good reporter, and had worked for _The __Chicago __Tribune_, but when he'd arrived in Europe he'd been burnt out, and by the time Tintin had known him he'd been a wreck of a man who spent his days drinking vodka and pulling in a hefty salary from _The __Daily __Reporter_ by getting Tintin to write the articles and submitting them under his own name, which carried more weight than an unknown, cub reporter.

"Really?" Tintin looked around in surprise. He'd expected the Captain to threaten his way to getting access to every article written under the Tintin pseudonym, but not anything he'd written for Jack. The copyright for those articles should rest squarely in Jack's name.

"_Go __on, __broodmother! __Kill __him! __Finish __him!__"_

Tintin turned back in time to see Sten wandering too close to the broodmother. She reached out one tentacle and picked him up, and proceeded to smash him against the ground. "Damn you!" he screamed. "Stop putting your bow away!"

"_Sweep __the __leg! __Sweep __the __leg! __Yeeeeaaaah!__" _The broodmother finished with Sten and tossed him easily at Alistair, who went down under the weight of the dead body. Seconds later, a swarm of shrieks appeared and quickly wiped out the rest of the adventuring party and Tintin tossed the controller away in disgust. "Good fun!" the Captain chortled happily.

"Ugh, frustrating game. I'm bored now. I think I'll head into the village for a while."

"Need a lift?" the Captain asked.

"Nah. I'll take my bike. It's only the village."

"I really don't like that bike. It's dangerous."

"No it's not: it's a heap of metal."

"It's a heap of metal that goes very fast."

"Ah, but it's me that makes it go fast," Tintin said quickly, grinning up at the Captain. "Don't worry: I'll stick to the speed limit."

"You should get a car. Let me buy you a car."

"No." Tintin stood up and stretched before pulling on his battered, brown leather jacket. "I like my bike."

"You must be the only teenager in the world that won't let someone buy them a car. How did I end up with you? Blistering barnacles, I must have done something terrible in a past life."

"I'll be back in about an hour."

"Can I play Grand Theft Auto?" the Captain asked hopefully.

"Knock yourself out," Tintin replied. "Keep Snowy here, though. I'll walk him when I get back."

xxx

It was remarkable how such a simple invention could bring so much joy to an old man. The Captain rubbed his hands with glee as he waited for the game to load up. He'd carried the PS3 downstairs, to the front sitting room – he preferred to sit in here: the couch was sinfully comfortable – and set it up. Calculus was in the corner, reading a book and talking his usual crap, but he was easy to tune out as the game started and Niko Bellic began his rampage.

It was therapeutic, he thought: running around Liberty City and punching hobos in the face with their own bottles of booze. Lucky bunch of coelocanths. He shot a glare at Calculus. "How are you coming with that cure?" he asked.

"Oh, about half past four," Calculus replied without looking up. "Although I think I should take it with my milk of magnesium."

"Good for you," the Captain muttered. He narrowed his eyes and promptly found, in the game, a small man with a black goatee, and shot him in the groin. "Ha ha! Take that!" A quick car-chase later found him over on the other side of the city, tossing Molotov cocktails around a park with reckless abandon. He'd just lined up a good one when the bottle exploded in his hand and killed him. He groaned and watched as the screen faded to black and Niko woke up in the hospital.

A bang made him jump. Was that… Was that a _gunshot?_ He paused the game and muted the television. After a few seconds, he moved to the window and opened it, leaning out into the cool breeze of the summer evening.

_Bang!_

There! Again! It was a gunshot, he was sure of it.

"Gunfire!" he said. "Tintin!"

"What?" Calculus asked.

Haddock tossed the controller on to the couch and grabbed his jacket. "Gunfire!" he shouted. _"__Gunfire!__"_

"A fire?" Calculus sat up, worried. "Where?" But Haddock was gone. He tore from the house and dove into his car, gunning the engine. "If they've hurt him," he muttered, "I swear I'll… I'll go Niko Bellic on them!"

He shot down the road, heading towards the village and scanning the grassy verges. It was all country here, and most of the land on either side of the road sat as meadows. Copses of trees dotted the verges, providing leafy shade to the walkers and hikers that seemed to swarm the area during good weather. He turned a sharp corner – the Stop sign had been knocked down a few months ago, and the council still hadn't replaced it: it would cause a lot of accidents come winter – and hissed as his wheels screeched with the pressure. Ahead of him, a large black Mercedes had pulled in to the side of the road. Two men were searching along the verge carefully. One looked behind him, saw the Captain's car and called a warning to his companion. They leaped back in to the Merc and shot off.

The Captain put his foot down, and prepared to follow the strange car, when a red glint under a large birch tree caused him to slam on the brakes. He skidded to a halt, his hands gripping the steering wheel, and looked again.

It was Tintin's bike.

He swore and jumped out, almost falling over his seatbelt in his haste, and ran to the wreck of the bike.

It was mangled. Bullet holes riddled the back and one side of the bike, and the back wheel was shredded. It had come off the road – as evidenced by the skid-mark that marred the old tarmac – and hit the birch. "Oh Jesus," he said quietly, his stomach dropping suddenly. Turning back to the road, he faced the way the Merc had gone. _"__Road-hogs!__" _he roared. _"__Bashi-bazouks! __Phylloxera!__" _ But they were long-gone, and his insults meant little.

He searched the verge himself, drawing closer to a small copse of trees. "Tintin!" he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. _"__Tintin!_ Where are you?"

"Captain?" a cautious voice called. "Is that you?"

The Captain stopped and looked around. It was late in the evening by now, and the day had taken on a hazy, almost dream-like quality. "Tintin?" he asked. "Are you… Are you a ghost?"

"What?"

The Captain looked up. Sitting on a high branch of a pollard willow, Tintin was starting to laugh. "No! I'm not a ghost!" he said. "I just hid up here!"

The Captain's heart started again, and he sagged against the trunk. "Thank God for that," he said, his voice heavy with relief. "I thought I'd gone mad with grief or something. Are you all right?"

Tintin carefully clambered down. "I'm fine," he said, when he was back on solid ground. "I thought I was done for when they opened fire. Where's my bike?"

The Captain laid his hand awkwardly on Tintin's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. "It didn't make it."

"No!" Tintin gasped and covered his mouth with his hands. "You're wrong: we can fix her."

"I'm sorry, but it looks like you'll need a new one. I'm very, very sorry."

Tintin cried out when he saw the wreck of the bike. "Svetlana!" he said mournfully. "Oh, Svetlana! What am I going to do without you? We've been through so much together!"

"It's always hard when your bike dies," the Captain consoled. "Come on: help me get her into the boot and we'll bring her home."

"Can I get a Lexus?" Tintin asked suddenly.

"Sure. Whatever."

They manhandled the corpse of Svetlana the motorbike into the expansive boot. One of her wheels stuck out, while her handlebars and the front wheel were twisted, giving the impression she was staring up at the late evening sky, watching the sunset-red bleed slowly through the darkening blue. Tintin gave her a fond pat on her fairing. "Poor Svetlana," he said. "She was a good bike."

"Yeah, sure," said the Captain.

They couldn't shut the boot – Svetlana was too big for that – so they began to drive slowly back towards the Hall. About half-way there, just before the blind corner, a fire-engine screamed by, sirens blaring. Tintin frowned. "That's headed for our place, isn't it?" he asked.

The Captain swore loudly. "Oh, _come_ on!" he cried. "Give me a break!" He put his foot down and they sped home. As they reached the gates, the Captain slowed down marginally and executed a terrifying hand-break turn. For a moment – a moment that slowed down and inspired terror – Tintin was within high-fiving distance of the tall pillars of the Hall's gates. Then the moment passed and they tore along the drive, spraying gravel as they came to a stop just behind the fire-engine.

"What is it?" the Captain shouted as he jumped out of the car. "Where's the fire?"

"Where's the fire?" Calculus asked as he hurried down the steps where he'd been holding court with the terse crew of the fire-engine. "Where is it?"

"What fire?" the Captain asked. "Why's there a fire brigade here?"

"No, it's the fire brigade. You said there was a fire?" Calculus gripped the Captain's arm urgently. "Tell me the truth: is it my lab?"

"No, I said there was _gunfire,_" the Captain said. _"__Gunfire!__"_ He turned to the unimpressed crew and grinned apologetically. "Sorry, false alarm."

"You do know there's a call-out charge, sir?"

"I'll get my cheque book," the Captain replied, glaring daggers at Calculus.

xxx

An hour later Tintin was packing up the Playstation. The Captain was sitting on the couch, his pipe perched in his mouth, while Calculus attempted to join the conversation. "It ends," the Captain promised. "It ends now. I've had enough, Tintin."

"I know," Tintin replied. He wrapped the wires around the game console and rested back on his haunches. "Somehow, this all revolves around Endaddine Akass. He planted his goons – the same two goons that tried to shoot me and run me off the road today – in an apartment over the gallery, and hooked them into the CCTV. Why, though? To spy on Fourcart? What has Fourcart to do with anything?"

"I swear you said there was a fire," Calculus said. He tapped one finger against the coffee table. "You said it distinctly: I heard it with my own ears."

"I must find out more about him," Tintin said softly. "I've tried the usual avenues: Google gave me nothing, and his Wikipedia page was a stub… Nobody remembers him before two years ago."

"Then we go directly to him," the Captain said firmly. "We go to him and get our answers. Where do we find the over-dressed windbag?"

"I assure you," Calculus continued, "that the way you ran out of here led credence to your claim of there being a fire. That is the only reason I called the fire brigade out. I wouldn't have done it, otherwise: they're a very busy organization and this sort of thing can be very dangerous. What if there was a real emergency somewhere else? Captain, you must be more careful."

"Oh, shut up you deaf old cyclotron! Where's my cure, eh? I've been sober for weeks. Months even."

"A cup of tea would be lovely, Captain, thank you. But that doesn't mean I'm letting you off the hook. You made me look very foolish."

"Great snakes!" Tintin wobbled with revelation, and almost lost his balance and toppled over. "I've got it!"

"Got what?" the Captain asked.

"I know where Akass is! Castafiore said she was going to sped some time with him, on Ischia."

"Yes, I hear she is," said Calculus. They glanced at him, mystified, then ignored him.

"Where's Ischia?" the Captain asked, baffled.

"Eh, Naples?"

"You want to fly to Naples."

"Yes!"

"When?"

Tintin shrugged. "Now? They say there's no time like the present."

The Captain rolled his eyes. "I'll start packing, you book the tickets."

"I'm already on it," Tintin replied as he whipped his mobile phone out.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's notes: <strong>

Ezio is from Assassins Creed 2 and AC: Brotherhood, at time of print.

The darkspawn, the broodmother, Loghain, Alistair and Sten are from Draogn Age: Origins, which is the game Tintin is playing on the PS3 (fun fact: trying to kill the broodmother on nightmare mode on a PS3 is frikkin' hard: after every new wave of 'spawn that teleport in, you have to individually go through the characters, switching from melee weapons to range, because the broodmother's tentacles **hurt. **Inevitably, during the few seconds it takes to pause, someone always wanders over to the broodmother with their sword, and gets smashed to pieces.)

Niko Bellic is from Grand Theft Auto 4. For those that think Tintin wouldn't have the personality to go on a mindless rampage through a computer game city, I dare you to work in a high-stress job and resist the urge to take it out on pixels. :(


	12. Chapter 12

**Twelve**

_"The world is a book, and those that do not travel read only one page" - St Augustine_**  
><strong>

* * *

><p>The small boat pulled in to the sheltered harbour of Ischia bay and Tintin and the Captain disembarked. Tintin held Snowy tucked under his arm as he negotiated the steps down to the dock. The Captain was grumbling.<p>

"Two _thousand_ kilometres by air," he muttered, "and another two hours by boat, just to find Castafiore. We must be masochists."

The pleasant, thin road wound up along the side of a tall hill. The village was beautiful and small, and in the middle of it there was a large stone square, its streetlamps festooned with white fairy lights. The large fountain in the centre of the square glistened as the water rippled and sunlight reflected from the many coins that had been tossed into it. It was an easy-going tourist village, and the receptionist at the Hotel Regina, the hotel they were booked in to, greeted them with a bright smile. "Welcome, _signori_," she said warmly.

"Tintin and Haddock," said Tintin, returning her smile. "We're booked in."

"Indeed. Welcome to Ischia. I hope you enjoy your stay here." She tapped at the computer before reaching under the desk for their key-cards. A moment later a bell-hop appeared to show them to their rooms.

"Very quickly," Tintin said suddenly. "I'm sorry, but do you happen to know where Mr Akass lives?"

"Ah, I can do better than that," she said cheerily. "I can show you. Come." She led them back to the front door and stepped outside. They followed her to the centre of the square, which was in front of the hotel, and pointed to the road that led north. "Do you see that villa there? The yellow-brick one, just set back from the road? That is where you will find Mr Akass. You know the famous diva has arrived?"

"La Castafiore? Yes, we're friends of hers," Tintin replied.

"I know this," she said with a grin. "I read the papers, Mr Tintin. Would you like me to send a message to the villa? I can let them know you've arrived. You are here for his party, yes?"

"That won't be necessary," he said. "We want to surprise Madame Castafiore. Can you see to it that our bags get to our rooms?"

"Of course sir."

The Captain and Tintin made their way carefully along the road, with Snowy gratefully gambolling along beside them. When they neared the villa, and were out of sight of the village square, they found some cover and began to spy on the house.

"Blistering barnacles," the Captain said. He handed his binoculars to Tintin. "That blasted Ramó Nash is there too!"

"He is?" Tintin took the binoculars and took a look. "So he is. I wonder why? One would think he would be too busy with his work to travel to Italy."

"Who knows? He's an artist. Do they even qualify as people these days?"

"We have to get in there," Tintin mused.

"We can talk to Castafiore. She'll get us in."

"I'd prefer to get in unnoticed, if you catch my drift."

"Ah, a little breaking and entering. I'm not sure if I can condone that."

"It means we don't have to talk to Castafiore," Tintin pointed out.

"I'm in," the Captain said quickly. "I'll meet you back here with a baseball bat and a crowbar."

"Steady on! Let's head back to the hotel: I need time to think."

xxx

Tintin opened the windows in his room, and the fresh, sea-tinged air washed over him, revitalising him. He felt better than he had in a long time. For the first time since this had started, he had the upper hand. Nobody knew he was here and poking around, so at last he was one step ahead. Plus, the documents de Villars had promised to send had arrived about an hour before they'd left Belgium, meaning that the book was sorted and ready to be edited by Flipke. It would be on sale in time for Christmas, and the proceeds would help fund an epic New Year's eve celebration.

What a beautiful view. The advantage to the village's height was a spectacular panorama of the ocean and the small, sheltered bay. He could see two large yachts parked off the island, and a few fishing boats scudded the waves briskly. The sky was a pure, amazing blue and clear of clouds for as far as the eye could see.

He leaned against the window frame and enjoyed the solitude and the peace that had settled over him. Snowy was snoozing in a patch of sunlight, and the Captain was in his own room. It was a rare moment of solitude in his busy life, and he resolved there and then that he would try harder to create more moments like this.

The old bakelite phone that sat beside the bed began to ring. Assuming it was the Captain, Tintin answered quickly. "Hello," he said.

"Listen carefully," said the voice on the other end, and Tintin found himself stiffening. He was _sure_ he knew that voice…

"There is a boat leaving in two hours," the voice said. "I strongly advise that you take it. The climate on Ischia doesn't suit you at all. In fact, it could be very bad for your health."

Tintin froze as the line died and the dial-tone picked up. "Crumbs," he whispered. "I know that voice. I _know_ that voice…" Tutting absently, he left his room, Snowy trailing after him, and went to the Captain's, knocking before he entered.

"Come in," the Captain called. "Oh, it's you. What's up?"

"I just got an anonymous phone call," Tintin said flatly. "Someone wants us to leave. Now." His upper-hand dissolved in smoke, and he found himself ten steps behind again.

"But who knows we're here?" the Captain asked with a frown.

"I don't know, but news can travel fast on an island this small. And as the receptionist said, they read the papers. They know who we are."

"Well, one thing for sure: we can't let Castafiore know we're here. We must avoid that at all costs."

The telephone beside the bed began to ring, and Tintin and the Captain stared at it cautiously for a few seconds. With a shake of his head, the Captain reached out and picked it up. "Hello?" he said warily. His eyes widened and he took the receiver away from his ear, smothering it against his jersey. "It's _her!_" he hissed. "It's only sodding Castafiore! Blistering barnacles, what do I do?"

"Talk to her?" Tintin offered with a shrug.

"Oh, bugger." He held the receiver to his ear and smiled in a pained way. "My dear friend," he said. "But how on earth did you know we were here?"

"Aah! You old slyboots!" La Castafiore purred. "Irma recognised you! She was talking a walk down by the landing stage, and she saw you arrive. You absolutely _must_ come to see me, Captain Karlock. The Master is the most ado-o-orable man! You absolutely _have_ to meet him."

Tintin collapsed into an armchair and watched the Captain, grinning at his discomfort.

"Yes," he was saying. "I'm sure I… No, I mean, yes… Yes… Yes.. Of course. I promise."

"He's gone to Rome for a few days," Castafiore continued, "but he'll be delighted to meet you when he returns. No, no, no, the friends of our friends are our friends too, _caro __mio!_ _Ciao!_"

The Captain hung up and sank weakly onto the bed. "Phew!" he said.

"I think this alters everything," Tintin said sweetly.

"I'll say. She's sending a carriage for us."

"A carriage? Oh, cripes." Tintin rubbed at his forehead distractedly. "There goes our low profile, too."


	13. Chapter 13

**Thirteen**

_"You know, we've got to do it some day: throw away all the guns and invite all the jokers from the North and the South in here for a cocktail party. Last man standing on his feet at the end wins the war!" - Captain Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce_**  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Soft music floated through the doors as the footman – complete with eighteenth century dress – bowed and showed them in. Neither had brought a suit with them, instead opting for neat trousers and the least crumpled-looking button-down shirt they could find. While the Captain had at least been able to shine his black boots so they looked respectable, Tintin had been stymied, and was forced to wear a plain pair of white tennis shoes that had been tucked into the bottom of his suitcase. They were, sadly, still under-dressed. Women floated around in short cocktail dresses and high-heels, their hair elegantly teased in to up-styles that looked to be held in place by gallons of hairspray – most were keeping a wary distance from the tiki torches that blazed in brass candle sticks – while the men were more casually – yet expensively - dressed with open shirts and linen suits.<p>

The buzz of conversation dropped for a second as La Castafiore, resplendent in a long, deep turquoise summer dress, swooped out of the crowd, her arms held open to them both. "Aaaah! My dear, dear friends! _Carissimi!_ Come, come, I simply must introduce you to everyone…" She seized their hands and pulled them over to where a tall, elegant woman dressed in a simple black dress stood with her husband and two other men.

"Angelina, darling, let me present Skipper Drydock, one of my closest friends. He's a real old sea-dog, you know. Skipper Drydock, This is Angelina Jolie…"

It only bloody was. While Tintin was momentarily stunned at meeting such a famous, beautiful woman, he was also aware that comedy gold was about to happen. True to form, the Captain didn't disappoint. Recovering less-well than Tintin, the Captain managed a strangled; "Madam!" and attempted to bow. At the same time, Ms. Jolie raised her hand for him to shake, and slapped him right in the mouth. While Tintin attempted to smother his laughter, gratified to see he wasn't the only person giggling, La Castafiore began another commentary.

"My dear friend," she said, clasping a mortified Angelina on the arm, "how could you have guessed that such a simple sea man knew how to kiss hands?" Overcome by the use of the words 'man' and 'sea', Tintin ducked away. He put Snowy down on the floor – there were other dogs wandering around, and he trusted Snowy not to be the cause of any trouble… Usually – and took stock of the room. There were a great many famous faces there, and a few he recognised from the financial pages of the bigger newspapers, but dotted among the guests were a couple of men that stuck out: bulky men in dark suits and sunglasses who hung back from the crowd, trying to remain inconspicuous.

He accepted a glass of wine from a passing waiter and sniffed at it experimentally. "That's not how one usually tests the bouquette," said a voice behind him. He turned and found Ramó Nash, just as under-dressed as usual, with a bottle of Corrs in his hand. He glanced around nervously. "What are you doing here?"

"Bianca Castafiore invited us," Tintin replied. He observed Nash critically, his face plastered with an open, affable expression. "We're old friends, you know." The artist was jittery. Tintin could feel anxiety, pouring like waves from him. But what exactly had him so on edge?

"Yes, I know, but I didn't think she'd be so stupid as to bring you of all people here," Nash snapped. "You must go at once."

"The last boat has already left," Tintin replied. "But I think you already know that. Did you phone me?"

"Yes. You should have taken my warning and gone. I can't protect you here."

"I don't need you to," Tintin snapped. "Don't presume I'm helpless, _monsieur_. That's a fatal mistake."

"Don't be an ass!" Nash hissed. "You don't know who you're dealing with. You don't even know _what_ you're dealing with."

Tintin laughed. "This isn't my first time on the merry-go-round, Mr Nash. If you want to continue with your life, _you_ leave this place. Otherwise, I'll bring you down too."

For a moment, Nash looked like he was going to grab Tintin and haul him bodily from the room. His empty hand bunched into a fist as he began to move forward, but a hasty glance up revealed La Castafiore bearing down on them like a well-meaning bird of prey. He quickly recovered himself, and forced a small smile at her. "Madame," he said calmly. His eyes darted to Tintin, who knew enough to play along.

"Now," La Castafiore was saying, "you know darling Ramó of course, and our own dear Tintin, but have you met Mr Scorses?"

Tintin quickly melted back into the crowd, letting the Captain take the brunt of Castafiore's attention. Unfortunately for Nash, he too was caught up in her wake, but he shot a final, furious glare at Tintin as the young reporter stepped backwards into a small group of people and disappeared from Castafiore's sight.

He made his way to the wall, where he discretely observed the room. Suddenly, his attention was drawn to the window, which showed a spectacular view of the surrounding countryside as the sun set overhead. Standing near the end of the window, over by the floor-length curtains, were two men he knew well. Oh, he knew them _very_ well: they'd tried to run him over, shot him, and they'd killed his beloved Svetlana.

_Svetlana!_Her death would be avenged…

Keeping out of their sight, he slunk around the room until he was standing beside them, almost shoulder to shoulder with the tall, thuggishly dressed one, and cleared his throat. Both men jumped and looked at him, and although the smaller, primly-dressed man's eyes were obscured by his sunglasses, the shock could clearly be seen in the other man's eyes.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Tintin said sweetly. He flashed them a happy smile. "What a pleasant party, no?" He left them then, staring after him as though they had seen a ghost, and rejoined the Captain, who had managed to extract himself from Castafiore's tender embrace.

"Having a nice time?" Tintin asked.

"Thundering typhoons, don't leave me alone with that woman!" the Captain hissed.

"Sorry, Captain, but you were a perfect distraction."

"Glad I could be of service," the Captain said sourly. "What did you find out?"

"Akass isn't in Rome: I'd bet my life on it. His two bodyguards – the ones that have been trying to kill me, and who stuck so close to him during his show in Brussels – are both here. He's not the type of man who'd leave his pet gorillas behind."

"Can we get the hell out of here now?" the Captain begged.

"Yes, we should leave. We'll tell Castafiore we're leaving on the first boat tomorrow morning, then we'll hide out in the hotel all day. That way, when we start investigating tomorrow, our presence will be a surprise."

"I don't care, as long as we can leave. Oh God! She's back! Abandon ship!" The Captain turned and walked into a plant in his haste to get away.

"My friends, there you are!" Castafiore hove into view. "Where did you get to?" she asked as she slipped an arm around Tintin's shoulders. "The Americans are dying to meet you, you know. You fascinate them. Come, come."

"Actually, Signora, I'm afraid it's getting rather late," he replied apologetically. "Most of the guests are leaving, and I think it's time that we did the same."

"Nonsense, the night is still young!"

"A-ha!" he laughed nervously. "Perhaps I lack stamina. I know the Captain does."

"Do I?" the Captain asked, genuinely interested. He'd always thought his stamina was quite good.

Tintin kicked his ankle. "Yes," he said firmly, as the Captain stifled a yowl. "Your stamina is bad, and you should feel bad. It's time to go back to the hotel, isn't it?"

"Oh, er, yes," said the Captain. "I'm… um… old, and all of that." He waved his hand vaguely, and Tintin had to resist the urge to roll his eyes.

"Then you will stay here tonight!" Castafiore clapped her hands closed. "It is settled," she declared. "I shall show you to your rooms myself."

"Madam." Ramó Nash appeared, his face clearly alarmed. "Perhaps it would be better if your friends" –

"Nonsense! Come, Ramó, we shall drink wine into the small hours and enjoy the beauty of the island!"

Tintin shot a grin at Nash as Castafiore led the Captain and he away. He wasn't sure what Nash was involved in, but the artist was almost terrified at Tintin's presence on the island. Whatever was going on, Nash was the weak link. He looked like a man about to break; worse, even, than when his oldest friend, Fourcart, had died. If anyone would crack and reveal all, it would be the artist. All thoughts of investigating tonight swiftly flew from Tintin's mind: he would leave the night to Nash. Let the man worry and sweat while Tintin slept: fear and exhaustion would do more to Nash than bullying or cajoling.

xxx

Tintin slept, his door bared and his window securely locked. Snowy had curled into a ball on top of the blanket, a comforting lump snuggled against his stomach. When he awoke, it was still dark outside, but his hip was starting to complain. He hadn't taken any painkillers since he'd left Belgium, fearing they would dull his senses. He needed his wits about him, and medicating himself wasn't the brightest thing to do. He winced as he sat up and pulled his t-shirt up. Moving to the window, he used the moonlight to check his bandage, but regardless of the steady ache he could see that the wound hadn't opened or started to bleed again. He sighed and prodded carefully around the actual bullet hole. The skin around it had bruised, affording him another measure of pain.

A sudden noise distracted him. He stiffened, his finger milimeters from the bandage, and looked outside. He had heard a muffled thump, he was sure of it, and as he carefully craned his neck he could see that down below, in the yard at the back of the house, the door of one of the many out-buildings had been opened, and a small team of men were stacking crates. As he watched, two more came out, stacked more crates on top of the ones that were there, and went back inside the building. A second later, an engine rumbled to life and a small van appeared, reversing carefully until it stopped close by to where the crates were stacked.

"Stay here, boy." Tintin pulled on his tennis shoes and crept out, closing the door on Snowy's face. He loved his dog, but he needed to keep completely silent now, and he couldn't trust that the dog wouldn't go for anyone.

He crept downstairs and made his way to the back of the house, until he found a side-door that opened at the far end of the yard. Keeping behind the house, he peered around the corner and watched as the men loaded the van. As soon as they were finished, one banged softly on the side of the van and it took off, starting slowly and coasting down the natural slope of the driveway until it passed the house and turned onto the road. Then, he heard the engine revving as the van picked up speed, and it drove away.

He watched the men walk back into the out-building. They had left the door open, but after five minutes they still hadn't returned or closed it. Making up his mind, and keeping low, Tintin hurried over to it and peered carefully inside. Seeing no guards, he went in.

The door opened onto a long, single-story room. Paintings hung from every wall, and more were propped up against the walls, leaning crazily. "Oh!" he breathed, his eyes finding the closest one to him. "A Modigliani!" He reached out and let the tips of his fingers brush gently over the canvas, but when he looked down, he could see paint staining his fingers. "It's still wet," he whispered. He moved down along the row, naming the artist's that had painted the pictures as he went. "Léger; Renoir; Picasso, I'm sure of it; Gauguin, Monet… All fakes! It's incredible: a perfect factory for forging pictures. They're perfect imitations too… But who painted them, I wonder?"

"Ah, but already know who did them, don't you?" a voice asked. Tintin spun around and found Endaddine Akass standing in the doorway, barring the way out. His two bodyguards stood either side, staring at Tintin impassively.

"Nash," Tintin said flatly. Of course: Nash was a forger. Akass must be selling the paintings on for him.

"Yes, our dear Ramó Nash," Akass agreed genially. "Poor Nash, who just can't stop himself. Poor Nash, who doesn't _want_ to stop himself. So we let him create his morbid Alph-Art, and we help him hide the bodies. Hands up, Mr Tintin: I believe you are my prisoner."


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's note:**

Hergé's book ends here. From this point on, **most **of what you are reading is purely from my own imagination. This won't end the way Hergé wanted it to end: this is the story I've been writing in my own head for the last few years. Because I can't possibly hope to write like Hergé, I'm not even going to try to attempt it.

**WARNING! **The story gets a LOT darker from this point on.

* * *

><p><strong>Fourteen<strong>

_"Fraud is the homage that force pays to reason" - Charles Curtis_

* * *

><p><em>Why <em>_didn__'__t __I __bring __Snowy?_ Tintin thought. He put his hands up and watched, warily, as the thuggish bodyguard approached, a gun in one hand and a pair of handcuffs in the other.

"Turn around," the man said gruffly. Tintin did as he was told, and felt his arms pulled down and secured behind his back as the cuffs snapped into place. His hip gave a painful tinge and he winced as he was pushed forward, towards a second door at the back of the room.

"What bodies?" he asked.

"Ah, so you still haven't figured it out?" Akass asked, his voice gleeful. "So Nash was right: it was the perfect hiding place. Put them in plain sight."

Tintin's heart started to beat painfully. "What bodies?" he asked again, his voice heavy with dread.

"Poor Nash. And Poor Fourcart. They were so weak, Mr Tintin. They found each other – such monsters often do – and together they murdered their way around Europe" –

"Oh God." Light had dawned, and Tintin's stomach twisted unpleasantly. "They're not _just _sculptures, are they?"

"No, Mr Tintin, they're not."

They were in a second room, one that was shorter than the first. More paintings hung, in the process of drying, from these walls, or stretched out on tarpaulin on the floor. There was what appeared to be a table in the centre of the room, and Ramó Nash stood beside it. He was.. bending _over_ it, and appeared to be looking _in to_ it. Tintin struggled a little, but one of the men had his arm in a vice-like grip, and propelled him forward. Nash looked up when he heard the small struggle.

"What's he doing here?" he asked, his voice alarmed.

"Mr Tintin knows too much," Akass said devilishly. "I was just telling him about your predilection, Ramó. You know: how you and Fourcart murdered all these women. These young girls. And displayed them for all to see. Most macabre, don't you think, Tintin?"

"What have you done?" Tintin asked Nash.

The artist shook his head. "It wasn't supposed to happen," he said desperately. "It was an accident."

"An accident?" Even though he was severely out-numbered and the odds were against him, Tintin couldn't stop himself from exploding with disgust. "There's 26 letters in the alphabet! Most of your 'sculptures' are of two girls! How many accidents could that be! So where do you fit into this?" He rounded on Akass, taking grim pleasure in the man's flash of surprise. "What happened? You found out, yes? Did he come to you, looking for help? You're a man of healing, after all: if anyone could help him, it would be you. What did you do? Threaten to reveal his secret if he didn't work for you?"

"Exactly," Akass said coolly. "It turns out that Ramó isn't fond of the idea of jail, and I am a complete fraud, my boy. I can't 'heal' anyone. _But_ I can use a forger. I keep Ramó's secret, and he supplies me with fake paintings."

"Then what about Monastir?" Tintin snapped. "He was the first to die. Well," He shot a disgusted look at Nash, "he was the first person connected to the art world to die. What did he do? Did he figure you out?"

"Nonsense! He was giving us the licenses of authenticity!" Akass looked smug. "We needed the paintings authenticated, if we wanted to sell them. Alas, he decided to blackmail me – me! – so I had him removed from the game."

"And Fourcart? Your _partner-in-crime_." He spat the words at Nash, who hung his head. "What did he do, to deserve such a death? Beside the obvious, that is."

"He grew a conscience," Akass answered. "He threatened to expose the whole thing, to you."

_Of __course . __That __was __the __meaning __of __Fourcart__'__s __phone __call; __that __was __why __he__'__d __mentioned __the __amount __of __people __that __disappeared __travelling __through __Europe, __and __that __was __why __he__'__d __hidden __the __fact __that __he __had __a __meeting __with __Tintin __for __the __day __of __his __death: __he __didn__'__t __want __any __of __them __to __know __he __was __going __to __spill __the __beans. __He __must __have __phoned __Tintin __using __the __phone __at __the __front __desk, __right __under __the __security __camera. __If __the __camera __had __sound, __they __would __have __heard __the __call __and __understood __at __once __what __he __meant __to __do._

"You're despicable," Tintin said coldly. "I've seen a lot of terrible things in my time, but I think this is in a league of its own. And you're just as culpable, Akass."

"You know, for a prisoner you're awful uppity," Akass said thoughtfully. "Ramó, get on with it, will you? You have another sculpture to do tonight. This time, though, it's for my own private collection."

Nash looked at Tintin and shrugged, before turning away. He went to a large barrel that hulked along the wall behind him, and turned a knob. Something gurgled unpleasantly as the tank kicked into life with a low growl.

"Show him," Akass said suddenly. He gestured to the guard that held Tintin's arm. "I want him to know exactly what's going to happen to him."

Tintin found himself pushed forward, and he saw that he had been wrong: Nash hadn't been standing at a table: he'd been standing in front of a tank. Inside, an olive-skinned girl lay. She was dressed sparsely, in a dark black shift. Her feet were bare, and her hands rested over her mouth. He could see the dark bruises around her bare wrists and ankles. He shook his head at her senseless death. "You monster," he said quietly, looking up at Nash. He looked back down, meaning to say a prayer for her, and realised that her eyes were now staring at him.

She was alive.

It hit him like a brick to the face, and his breathing stopped for a moment. All he could hear was the sound of his own blood thundering in his ears. He looked back at Nash, who was watching the girl's face. "What are you doing?" Tintin asked, horrified. "She's still alive. Nash. _Nash!_" The liquid from the barrel was pouring into the tank, pooling sluggishly around the girl. Her terrified eyes looked all around, but she didn't move an inch.

"It's a marvellous thing, you know," Akass was saying. Tintin could just hear him over his own screams. "He sedates them first, then poses them" –

"They're more supple alive than dead," Nash interrupted. He was watching the girl avidly as the liquid rose around her. "I can't pose them once rigour mortis sets in."

"You asshole! She's still alive, Nash! She's still alive! Stop this! Make it stop!"

"And then he pours this ingenious liquid in on top of them," Akass continued, ignoring Tintin's struggles. "It kills them, of course, but it preserves them perfectly. You, my dear boy, will know exactly what it feels like: Ramó is going to pour his special liquid over you too, and you'll become a sculpture. I may even get you authenticated by an expert. No, perhaps not: you're too well known, aren't you? No, your body will be put in an attic somewhere. Somewhere dark and out of the way, and no one will ever know what happened to you. Like all the others, you'll just be another statistic. Just another missing youth in Europe."

Nash was watching them carefully. "He'll need to be sedated," he said quietly. He was looking from Akass to Tintin. All his former anxiety was gone, replaced with a new kind of strength and determination. "Yes," he said, nodding. "He'll have to be sedated."

The two guards descended on Tintin. He found himself picked up bodily as one grabbed his legs, and dumped on top of the tank. They held him down – thankfully, he was on his back: he wasn't able to see what was happening underneath him – as Nash disappeared for a second, reappearing with a syringe. "Keep him quiet," Nash said, and a hand clamped itself over Tintin's mouth. His head was twisted to the side and he fought with all his strength as he felt the sharp prick of the needle as it entered his skin.

But Nash knew what he was doing, and a few seconds later nobody was holding Tintin down. He lay, curled on his side, dispassionately watching as the liquid in the tank below him finally covered the girl's face and she began to drown.

He felt like he was floating. He couldn't move his body if he tried – hell, he couldn't feel his arms and legs any more, and he wasn't sure but it felt as though his head had left too – and sound seemed to come to him as though it was travelling a long distance. He concentrated, narrowing his eyes, as Akass's lips moved.

"I want to watch," Akass said urgently. "I want to watch his death. It would be… gratifying, I think."

"Fine," Nash snapped. He was out of sight. He was somewhere… Oh, he was somewhere, but Tintin couldn't move to find him. "Just send your men away."

Akass dismissed his men with a curt gesture. Tintin watched them go, his mind wandering. _They __killed __Svetlana._ He tried to say it out-loud, but nothing came out except for a small groan. He felt something move against his forehead, and after a monumental effort of thought, realised it was Nash smoothing his hair away from his eyes.

"I told you to leave," the artist said sadly.

_Yes, __you __did_. Tintin wanted to agree with him, but simply couldn't find the strength. His mind started to get a bit muddled now. Akass was watching him curiously, dispassionately, but it almost looked as though he was another person now. Someone Tintin recognised, but couldn't place yet. Akass's face was shifting back and forth between his public face – the face everyone saw – and a private face – a face that only Tintin knew. Then Nash was behind him. Standing behind Akass. Akass was saying something, but all Tintin could see was the syringe Nash held. He lifted it and it almost looked as though he pressed it into Akass's skin.

Akass was shouting. Or was he? It was hard to tell: everything was going black. But it looked as though Akass was shouting. He was holding one hand against his neck and shouting at Nash, who didn't look at all interested. Akass dropped to the ground and Nash stepped over the body.

He bent over Tintin. "I'll protect you," he promised.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: <strong>

I really, really hope I did a good enough job of dropping hints throughout the story. See a note in the review/comment section for more information. :) ps: this is the update that comment is talking about.


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's note: **Beware: some naughty language. If swearing makes you unhappy, please go and read something else.

* * *

><p><strong>Fifteen<strong>

_"Silence may be golden, but Duct Tape is silver" – old internet saying_

* * *

><p>Tintin opened his eyes to darkness. It took a few seconds to adjust to the situation, and his pounding headache and dry, parched throat weren't helping. However, a pounding headache and a dry, parched throat indicated that he was still alive, and on the face of things that could be counted as a huge bonus. Encouraged by his continual alive-ness, he took careful stock of his surroundings.<p>

He was lying on his side in a small, cramped, dark place. A dark place that moved; a muted roar echoed dimly around him. Probably the trunk of a car, was his best guess. He could feel heavy duct tape over his mouth, and his hands were tied tightly behind his back with more of the same. When he moved his legs experimentally, he realised his ankles were tied together too, and when he kicked out to try and figure out how small the space was, he realised he was barefoot.

He whimpered at the sudden blossoming of pain in his toes. They had connected hard with the side of the trunk, but the sharp pain helped focus his mind and clear the fog the drug had left as it wore off. He took a few deep breaths to steady his racing heart, but the tape over his mouth was making his breathing more difficult, and the air in the trunk was already turning stale. He was breathing hard and sweating like a race horse.

He needed to stay calm, he knew: he had to keep his wits about him if he wanted to walk away from this in one piece. An icy hand clutched at his spine as his treacherous brain reminded him that Nash was a murderer. Not just any murderer: but a serial killer, from the looks of things.

He wondered how many young women had lain here, in the same position, thinking the same desperate thoughts about escape. Had they searched, as he was searching, for a sharp edge to cut their bonds? He wondered how many of them had succeeded.

He turned onto his back with a grunt and ignored the pain that shot through his arms as they took the brunt of his weight. He pulled his legs up, until his feet were flat on the ground, and pushed against the top of the trunk with his knees, but that was futile: there was no give. With another grunt he rolled back over, so that he was on his other side facing out – or where 'out' should be – and began to search.

He'd heard some story a couple of times – oh, in a Facebook forwarded message, through email, and once from Some Guy In The Pub who swore it was true: some woman was kidnapped from the car-park of a shopping centre, but she'd managed to knock the back lights out from inside the trunk, and attract the attention of the car behind her by sticking her hand out and waving. But all Tintin could see was the slightly rough felt-like material that coated the inside of the trunk. He swallowed the urge to scream in frustration: either that story was bullshit or Nash had heard it and covered up the lights in the trunk.

His hip hurt too much to keep lying on it like that, so he struggled back onto his other side and waited, his eyes squeezed shut, until the pain and the accompanying burst of nausea died away. When he was sure he wasn't going to be sick, he opened his eyes and looked around again, but there didn't appear to be anything else in the trunk with him. He carefully felt his way into the bottom corners with his feet – he could see nothing up near his head – but there was nothing there either. There wasn't even a spare tyre or a car-jack he could use to help tear the tape that held his wrists together.

He started to keen softly, and hated himself for it. He hated the weakness it showed, and he hated the panic that washed over him. It was real, genuine fear now, and it was clutching as his heart and tightening its grip. He knew – _knew _– that he needed to keep a lid on it. He needed to stay calm and start working on a way to free his wrists, but even as a calm, collected inner-voice was telling him this, another had thrown its hands in the air and declared; "Fuck it!", and without fully realising it he had started scream as best he could, and hammer the soles of his feet against the bottom of the trunk as his fear took over.

It didn't take long for Nash – or whoever was driving – to notice, and Tintin felt the car begin to slow down before it stopped completely. He rocked a little with the jolt and managed to calm down a little. He heard a door open and slam shut. He had a few seconds to compose himself so he rolled onto his back again and readied his legs: when the lid of the trunk opened, he was going to kick the _hell_ out of whoever was there.

He heard the dull _clunk_ as the trunk was unlocked and the click as a button was pressed on the outside. The trunk opened a crack, flooding the space with weak light that made Tintin gasp and recoil, wincing, but he forced his eyes to stay open. He watched as fingers curled around the lid of the trunk and pulled it up. It took all of his willpower to stop his eyes from closing, but as soon as he felt fresh air wash over him he kicked out viciously…

… And hit nothing.

Nash was standing close to Tintin's head, watching the boy's attempt with a little amusement. "I see you're awake," he said mildly.

Tintin spat obscenities that were swallowed by the gag. He narrowed his eyes and glared at Nash. The sky behind the man was tinged with red, but was in sunrise or sunset? It if was dawn, there was a good chance they were still on Ischia. If it was rolling on to night… Well, Ischia wasn't exactly big enough to travel all day by car and not reach your destination. They could be anywhere.

Nash leaned over. "You're bleeding," he said, pointing to Tintin's hip. "You've opened that wound again."

Tintin stayed silent. He needed Nash to get within reach of his legs, if wanted to have any chance of escaping now. _Where __the __hell __is __the __traffic?_ his mind screamed at him. This road was completely deserted, and he didn't remember hearing any other cars passing them since he had woken up.

Nash moved quickly, taking Tintin by surprise. He pushed down on the re-opened wound and Tintin screamed as _agony_ lanced through his body. Then, while his captive was still distracted, Nash flipped Tintin onto his uninjured side, so he was facing away. Grasping the boy's hair, he pulled until Tintin was forced to arch his back and tilt his head back. It was only then that Tintin saw the rag Nash held in his left hand, and as soon as it was clamped over his nose Tintin recognised the curiously sweet smell of chloroform.

He struggled as hard as he could, bucking his body and trying to throw Nash off, but the man held a good fistful of hair, holding Tintin's head almost still. The chloroform worked its magic quickly, and Tintin felt his head beginning to reel. It was hopeless, he realised as drifted back into darkness.

xxx

The Captain had been pacing all day. It felt like a lifetime. He'd run out of tobacco very early that morning – he always smoked more when he was stressed out – and by the time the first newsagents in the village had opened he'd been ready to tear someone's – anyone's – head off.

He'd called the police as soon as he'd discovered that Tintin was missing, and a thorough search of the villa and its many out-buildings had yielded an unconscious Akass; a small arsenal of weapons; a variety of paintings for some reason; and a dead body. It was at this point that the Captain had run out of tobacco.

By the time Interpol had arrived, Akass was beginning to recover, and he'd been transferred to the sleepy-looking village police station as soon as the local doctor had given him the all-clear. Much to his frustration, the Captain hadn't been allowed near Akass. He just needed a few minutes alone with the man, but Thompson and Thomson had refused. With nothing else to do, and with Bianca Castafiore off with a large search party that were combing the island for any sign of Tintin, the Captain had ended up pacing up and down outside the police station as he smoked his way through almost sixty of Mr Player's finest blue label cigarettes.

He hadn't smoked Johnny Blue in years, and his throat felt raw, like he'd been shouting all day. Blistering barnacles, he hadn't bought a packet of fags in over ten years, not since he had switched to his pipe, but this was starting to feel like one of _those_ days, and it wasn't as if he could knock back a belt of whisky to steady his nerves and take the edge off. His mother – God rest her – had _hated _his smoking, but he was sure she'd forgive him now, considering the circumstances. He tossed the butt and ground it out underfoot as he ran his hand tiredly over his face, scratching at his whiskers.

_Please, __mum,_ he thought desperately, _if __you__'__re __in __Heaven, __look __after __my __boy. __Make __sure __nothing __bad __happens __to __him. __Cheers._

The door of the police station opened and the Thompsons stepped out. The heat had been hellish today, especially inside the police station where there was no working air conditioner. Both men had discarded their heavy black jackets and their matching waistcoats hung open to show the heavy stains of sweat on their formerly white shirts. One of them – the Captain couldn't really tell them apart, not like Tintin could: hell, the Captain had been shocked to learn the two men weren't actually related – sighed heavily and sat down at the top of the steps, clearly relieved to be out in the cooler evening air. The other held his hat in both hands, his jacket hanging from the crook of his right arm, and cleared his throat nervously.

"Well?" the Captain asked.

Thomson or Thompson shook his head. "He still isn't talking. He… er, he's asked for a lawyer. One will be here soon. About an hour or so."

"And once that happens, we stand less chance of finding out what's going on," the other added.

The Captain clenched his fists and pressed them against his eyes, trying to resist the urge to punch something. He counted to ten, but didn't feel any calmer. "Five minutes," he begged. "Just five minutes with him, _please!__"_

"You can't kill him," Thompson warned.

The Captain's heart skipped a beat. "Scout's honour," he said, holding up his left hand in what he hoped was a scout's salute.

The Thompsons exchanged a wary look. Thomson – who was still sitting down – shrugged. "It won't count as police brutality," he said.

"I'm not a copper," the Captain agreed.

"Do you have any weapons?" Thompson asked.

"Nope, none at all. I'll give him a sporting chance."

"Fine. Leave us your smokes and a lighter. You have as long as it takes for us to finish a cigarette." Thompson tossed a set of keys to the Captain, who handed over the last of his cigarettes and a small plastic lighter. "You are kings among men," he said warmly as he dashed into the police station.

"Did you hear something, Thomson?" Thompson asked.

"No, I didn't hear anything: I was too busy enjoying this cigarette," Thomson replied.

"Oh dear, I believe I have misplaced the keys to the interrogation room."

"Can't be helped, my dear Thompson: we'll look for them in a minute."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: <strong>Once again I'd like to remind all readers that this is my own personal ending to _Alph Art_. If you are unhappy with any aspect of it, that's perfectly fine; feel free to write an ending too. After all, this is a fan fiction website and you are a fan. As ever, feed-back is appreciated and welcomed with a smile. Critiques on writing style/characterisation and story-telling are particularly welcome. Rude PMs are less appreciated.


	16. Chapter 16

**Authors note: rated for naughty language and stuff about murdering people**

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><p><strong>Sixteen<strong>

_I don't pray because I don't want to bore God- Orson Wells_

* * *

><p>It didn't take any time to find Akass, who was sitting at a table in the tiny room that served as the interrogation room. The Captain noted the smug smile Akass sported as he closed the distance and drove his fist into the other mans face. "Where's Tintin?" he asked.<p>

"Jesus!" Akass squawked.

The Captain knocked Akass's stupid fez off the man's head, grabbed a fistful of hair, and bounced his face off the table top. "I already found Jesus," he replied calmly. "He was hiding in my garden shed. Now I'm looking for Tintin." Keeping his hand fisted in Akass's hair, he pushed the other man's face into the table. "Where is he?"

"Go to hell!"

Wordlessly, the Captain dragged Akass out of his chair and hit him viciously in the kidneys. Akass dropped like a stone, winded, and the Captain let go of his hair. Bracing himself against the wall, he kicked Akass in the stomach.

"Where is he? What did you do to him?"

"Jesus! I don't know! I don't know!"

"Wrong answer." The Captain took a hold of Akass's robes and dragged him to his knees before slugging him in the face again. He felt, rather than heard, the satisfying pop as Akass's nose broke.

"That's enough, Captain," one of the Thompsons said. Blinking, the Captain turned around. He hadn't even heard them come in; he'd been so absorbed in Akass.

"I don't know, I swear! Jesus, my nose!" Akass was on his knees, crying now. Magically, his Greek accent had disappeared, and was replaced by a harsher American accent. "Nash turned on me, that son of a bitch, I swear. I don't know what he did with the kid."

"Nash?" the Captain asked, startled. He looked over at the Thompsons. "Ramó Nash?" Now that he thought of it, he didn't remember seeing Nash all day, and when Bianca was setting up the search party, which had included a lot of the guests that had stayed the night at the villa, Nash hadn't been among them.

"The artist?" Thomson sat down and turned the tape recorder on. "Interview resumed at" – he paused to check his watch – "8.17pm. Mr Akass has voluntarily agreed to continue without a solicitor present. Sit down, sir."

The request was so polite, Akass found himself struggling to his feet and sitting down across from them. Thomson was looking back, his face blank, while Thompson took a piece of plain white paper from a stack of it and placed it on the table. He was poised, pen in hand, waiting to write down whatever Akass said.

"Now, Mr Akass," Thomson said, "is that your real name?"

"No," Akass said morosely. "My name is Steve Vine."

"And you're not Greek, are you Mr Vine?"

"No. I'm from Hoboken, New Jersey."

"What?" the Captain exclaimed. "What is this?"

"That's enough, Captain," Thomson warned. He went to the door and called out to the nervous constable beyond; "See if you can find any outstanding warrants for one Steve or Steven Vine, of Hoboken, New Jersey. United States," he added as he closed the door and returned to his seat. "Unless, Mr Vine, you want to save us some time and just tell us whether or not you're already wanted?"

Steve Vine of Hoboken, NJ, deflated visibly. "Yeah," he admitted. "I'm wanted in France, Germany and England. Possession with intent to sell."

"You're a _drug __dealer?__"_ the Captain cried. He passed a hand over his face, willing himself to stay calm. Now that Akass – or whatever the hell his name was – was finally talking, he didn't want to miss a thing, and he didn't want the Thompsons kicking him out until he got his answers.

"Bit of a confidence trickster, are we?" Thomson asked kindly.

"Yeah," Vine admitted. "People are so stupid. They just make it so easy. Ever since Madonna took up Kabala, there's a market for stupid new-age crap and rich people are falling over themselves to try and grab it with both hands. What the hell was I supposed to do? They kept giving me money!"

"Never mind about that now: I'm sure they deserved to be fleeced. Why don't you tell us what happened at your villa?"

Vine took a deep breath. "Look, that dead girl is nothing to do with me."

"I'm glad you mentioned her. Who is she?"

"I don't know. Oh, Christ, what a mess." He rubbed his face and sighed again. "About two years ago, right after I became Akass, Ramó Nash came to see me. Oh, this was in Paris. I was living in some fancy apartment there – I say living, but it wasn't mine and the owners didn't know I was there. Nash was part of the underground scene there. _Last Angry Man_ turned starving artist, or something. All that bullshit." He waved his hand flippantly. "He was nervous. Strung out. He'd been smoking weed and drinking all day. He said he was sick, or whatever.

"Next thing I know, he's telling me his goddamn life story: how he killed his wife and baby back in Flanders and fled the country, like, fourteen years ago or something. It'd be more now. He said he'd been killing since then. Every so often he'd get the urge, he said, and every so often he'd indulge it. He worked with Vilary Fourcart – don't ask me how those two sick bastards met, I didn't ask because I didn't want to know. They'd pick up girls – whores and runaways mostly. Y'know, girls nobody would miss. Fourcart would rape 'em and afterwards Nash would kill 'em.

"He was a genius at killing though, I'll give him that. He'd pump them full of special k – that's ketamine to you – and dissect them while they were still alive. He was like one of those guys… You know the ones? Whadda ya call 'em? Anatomists. Like the Renaissance guys that used to cut up criminals to find out how the body worked.

"Was I shocked? Hell yeah! I mean, I was just a pusher and a con man! I couldn't heal nobody! But Nash had taken it into his head that I could. What the hell was I supposed to do?" He looked around, as though he expected an answer to his question.

"You could have told the police," Thomson replied. "Now you're guilty of aiding a murderer. That's a very serious offence."

"I couldn't do that!" Vine said with a laugh. "Are you crazy? Nash was just taking off! He'd made some little art-house, indy movie that had just taken Caans by storm. He'd painted a bunch of fakes and his friend, Jacque Monastir, had provided a bunch of certificates authenticating them. Fourcart set up some gallery viewing, claiming it was part of newly-found stash of Nazi war loot – this was when they were still in Berlin – and invited a bunch of art critics to check it out, and filmed it. Turned out that the critics didn't know shit, and thought the paintings were real. Man, those guys were _pissed_ when that movie came out!

"So I… Look, I saw an opportunity and I took it. That's what I do, you know? Nash didn't want to go to jail: he just wanted me to heal him and take the urge to kill away. I couldn't, so I came clean to him. I told him the truth. If you'd looked up the word despair in a dictionary that day, you'd have seen Ramó Nash's face when he found that out. I felt sorry for him. We all have our little weaknesses, you know?"

"Indeed," Thomson murmured. "I'm rather fond of Marmite, myself."

"Marmite? Yuck, that's disgusting. Anyway, it was an opportunity. He could paint like the masters – he's a damn fine artist underneath all the crazy – and I could sell the paintings on for millions. Everybody was a winner!"

"Except for Nash and Fourcart's victims," the Captain spat, unable to contain himself. "Except for their _families.__"_

"They had no families," Vine protested. "They were nothing."

"They were _people!_ They were young women! Blistering barnacles, man, where's your compassion? Where's your empathy?"

Vine shook his head. "They were statistics."

"They were someone's daughter, every one of them! They were somebody's _children!__" _His voiced hitched suddenly, and he had to turn away to hide the sudden sting of tears in his eyes. He blinked rapidly to clear them, trying not to think of Tintin, alone with a monster like Nash, out there somewhere. _He__'__s __still __alive, __I __know __it. __I __can __feel __it._

"And what happened last night, Mr Vine?" Thomson asked, shooting a warning look at the Captain.

"Tintin found out," Vine said with a shrug. "He was wandering around, poking his nose in where it wasn't wanted, and he found the paintings. I took him to Nash, who was working on his next project. You know the Alph Art? Well, they're not fakes. They're real dead women. Nash and Fourcart killed them all."

"Jesus wept!" the Captain cried. "I had one of those in my house!"

"Yeah," Vine said with a laugh. "We thought that was pretty funny! Er, no offence," he added, when he saw the Captain take a step towards him, his whole body radiating anger. "It became the final test, you know? We had no idea you even lived near by, or that you'd ever go to the gallery. We didn't plan that. But once you were there, and you bought one of the statues, we figured we'd see if it would fool you. Fool the great Tintin. And it did.

"It turns out Nash was right: we could display the bodies and nobody would ever find out. Not even Tintin guessed what they were, right? I mean, who would? Who would think they were dead bodies? That's… It's not normal. It's easier to accept that they were clever fakes. Mannequins sculpted from clay.

"It was all perfect: the Alph Art was the cover for our fraud. People were too busy looking at them to see what we were doing behind the scenes. Then Fourcart got antsy. He wanted to stop, to go to the police. Said his conscience wouldn't let him sleep no more. I had to stop him from going to Tintin – he was going to hand the story to Tintin and let him blow the whole thing wide open. I couldn't let that happen. Not now, not after I earned all that money. I didn't wanna go back to jail! Fourcart had no clue what it's like inside. There was no way I was going back."

"How did you stop him?" Thomson asked. The Captain leaned against the wall, tapping his foot impatiently as Vine opened up and told them how he'd arranged for two of his goons to kill Fourcart. More time passed, but the Captain was only half listening as he tried to figure out his next move. He'd sent a discrete text to Bianca Castafiore, asking if Nash had shown up, but she said he hadn't. She was also all right with keeping Snowy for a while – she had him now, claiming his nose would help sniff out Tintin if he was hiding on the island. The Captain got the feeling that she still thought it was all a jolly jape, and they'd find Tintin down the pub, copping off with the village bicycle. He hadn't the heart to tell her, not yet. He didn't need that Milanese nightmare hanging out of him when he had serious work to do.

First things first, was the find out whether or not Nash was still on the island. That would be easy: he'd check down at the harbour. There would be a record of anyone that took a boat out, and on the off chance that Nash had taken Tintin on the public ferry there'd be witnesses. No, chances were he'd have taken a private launch: Tintin wouldn't be one to go willingly.

_Unless he had no choice. Ketamine was a dangerous drug…_

"…and that's when he stuck me with the needle," Vine finished, "and shot me full of special k too. After that, I don't know."

"Do you know where Nash would take him?" Thomson asked, leaning forward. "Where does he usually kill?"

"Here," Vine said with a shrug. "Back at the villa. These days, he kills purely for art, and all his stuff is set up back there. It's out of the way and the out-buildings are sound-proofed. Before that, it was all over the place. They went all over Europe. Sometimes, they took the girls from one country and brought them over the border to dump the bodies in another."

Thomson gave an exasperated sigh as he sat back. "All right," he said, "so do you know who _any_ of Nash's victims were? Did he give you any names? What about the body we recovered from your villa this morning? Who was she?"

"Monkey number three?" Vine offered. "That was his new project: those dopey monkeys. You know the ones? See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. She was Speak No Evil. She was monkey number three."

Thomson closed his eyes and counted to ten, and the Captain could see that Vine's flippant attitude to murder was starting to get to him. The Thompsons were good men. They may not be the most graceful or eloquent men, but they were good men, and they were policemen through and through.

"I have to get out of here," the Captain said, his voice heavy with disgust. "Thundering typhoons, Akass – or whoever you are – but you make my fists itch something fierce!"

"Ok, you want a name?" Vine snapped, and the Captain drew up short, his hand hovering over the door handle. "Fine, I'll give you a name. I got a good one for you. Should be worth something, you get my drift."

"You'll have to tell us first," Thomson replied. "We'll decide whether it's a good tip or not."

"Oh, this is golden. This'll get you a promotion. You know the statue 'Mother'?" He looked at the Thompsons expectantly, who shrugged.

"No," Thomson said.

"I do," the Captain said warily. "I've seen it."

"That's Nash's wife." Vine sat back and gave them a superior smile. "She's the first one he made, all those years ago. In fact, he only did that so he could preserve her and keep her close to him. Out of all them, she's the only one he regrets killing. She was also the inspiration for Alph Art. Once he realised that she'd been perfectly preserved for so many years, he realised he'd be able to get away with it. If the bodies don't decompose over time, nobody would know they were actually dead bodies."

"The name?" Thomson urged.

"I'm getting there! The only reason I remember is because of who her family is: they're wealthy industrialists from Paris. We could never display her openly, because her father collects art and would have known her straight away. The others all came from poor families – rural areas, we think. Less chance of their families attending high-class galleries or keeping up with the latest cultural revolution."

"The name," Thomson said again.

"Madeline Gascard," Vine said with a flourish.

"_The_ Madeline Gascard?" Thomson asked, almost falling off his chair. "The eldest daughter of Filip St Clair Gascard?"

Something unpleasant clicked in the Captain's head. _He __killed __her __where? __How __many __years __ago?_

"That's the one," Vine was saying. "They weren't really married or anything, her and Ramó, not really. Her father didn't want her anywhere near Ramó, so they ran away together. They fled to Belgium, to Flanders, and settled down in the middle of nowhere, where he couldn't find them. Hey, what's up with your friend there?" he asked, pointing at the Captain. "He looks like he's seen a ghost."

"are you all right, Captain?" Thompson asked. He'd been silent this whole time, as he carefully transcribed Vine's statement.

The Captain let go of the door handle and sagged back against the wall. He could feel icy fingers of dread creeping up his back. He didn't know the St Clair Gascards of Paris, and he'd never heard of Madeline Gascard – he'd been at sea when she'd disappeared, and it was before he'd settled in Belgium – but he knew _a_ Gascard, who was also from Flanders.

"Tintin's real name," he said slowly, "is Shane Gascard."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note: <strong>I read each and every review left, and I have been a bit nervous putting this chapter up because a couple of people thought that Akass would be the main villain, and he would be revealed as Roberto Rastapopolus. However, when I first read _Alph Art,_ I read it without the newer pages, which showed that particular doodle, so to my mind Akass _wasn't_ Rastapopulus. As the story grew in my head, I realised that I was taking it in a completely different direction than a lot of fans would be expecting. I did toy with the idea of putting Rastapopulus in as Akass, but it didn't fit simply because of the storyline I had planned for Tintin and Nash: it was too much, and took away from what will be coming up in the next few chapters (this will be finished in about 3 chapters, I think).

And for anyone that thought this was too similar to Yves Rodier's version, and who thinks that this might be a way to swing this story away from that one, if you go back and read through some of the earlier chapters you'll find the clues I left hinting at this familial association. eg: alluding to the name Tintin being a pseudonym, the fact that Haddock thinks Nash looks very familiar but has never met him before, Tintin's reaction to the statue of 'Mother', and Nash's curious comment to Tintin when they meet in the back room of the art gallery, when Tintin first sees 'Mother', in chapter 10. In fact, I was very worried that would give the game away completely, so if the story's direction comes as a surprise to you, then I think I've done my job well. :)

As ever, reviews will be appreciated.


	17. Chapter 17

**Seventeen**

_Hope is the dream of a waking man - Aristotle _

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><p>It took a while for Tintin to come back to consciousness. His head swam sickeningly and his hand shook as he reached for the glass of water. He paused before picking it up, his fingers brushing hesitantly in the soft condensation that clouded the outside of the glass. He was, he noticed, lying on top of a bed, fully clothed – although his feet were still bare, which would hamper escape. It was a small room, holding only the rusted, old iron-framed double bed, a small chest of drawers, and two bed-side tables. And, of course, the glass of water, which Tintin really,<em>really<em> wanted to drink.

Knowing it could be drugged – or worse – he threw caution to the wind and drank deeply. As soon as the room stopped spinning he collapsed back onto the bed, the pillow cool against his cheek. He felt awful. His eyes ached and his mouth quickly dried out again. His teeth felt dirty and unpleasant. Thinking was difficult. It was like the mother of all hangovers. This was, he supposed, how Captain Haddock felt the morning after a Good Night Out. How the man was able to function like this was nothing short of remarkable.

_Poor __Captain._ _He __must __be __so __worried._

The thought slipped out, unbidden, and for a moment Tintin could have sworn that he smelled that familiar mixture of Old Spice and tobacco and smoke…

And on that thought, he slipped back into a deep sleep as the last of the chloroform wore off.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Some Hours Later<em>**

He lay completely still, his eyes squeezed shut. He'd woken again some time ago, but now there were noises in the room with him and he had no intention of facing anyone until he knew for sure what his plan was. He could hear someone breathing and occasionally clearing their throat softly; the scratch of first a pencil, and then a paint brush, on paper. On the few occasions that he had dared open his eyes he'd seen the back of an easel, the large canvas blocking whoever sat behind it.

It could only be one person: Ramó Nash.

"Are you still pretending to be asleep?" Nash asked suddenly. Surprised, Tintin opened his eyes. Nash was still hidden behind his easel and didn't appear to be looking at Tintin. Slowly, his head slid out from behind the canvas, his eyebrows arched in a curiously polite manner. "No? Good. How do you feel?"

"What?" Tintin asked stupidly. He shifted a little, and heard a metal clank. He'd figured out a little while ago that his left wrist was now handcuffed to the bed.

"How are you?" Nash asked politely.

"I'm… not very well, actually."

"Ah. That's a shame." Nash swirled a thin-bristled paintbrush around a jar filled with paint-mixed water, before dropping it into a second jar that held its brothers. "What's wrong?"

_What's wrong? What the hell was right!_

"Are you being serious?" Tintin shifted, raising himself on his elbow and staring hard at the canvas Nash was currently hiding behind. "I got shot only a few days ago! I'm pretty sure these stitches have split open and it friggin'_hurts!_ I've been kidnapped and drugged – I don't even know how many times you've drugged me, by the way – and I don't know where I am and I don't know what day this is! How many days _has_ it been? Plus, I'm pretty sure that you're a psychopathic serial killer, and I'm now handcuffed to your bed. What part of this should be giving me hope for my future?"

"Relax: your innocence is in safe hands," Nash said dryly. "I re-bandaged your wound, too. You haven't lost that much blood, although you do have a bit of a fever."

"Am I supposed to thank you for that? Where are we? What is this place?"

"What do you think?" Nash emerged from behind the easel, holding the canvas. He flipped it over to show Tintin what he'd painted: a portrait of Tintin sleeping. "When I get bored, I draw," Nash explained with a small shrug. "And I got very bored waiting for you to wake up."

"Yeah, chloroform's a bitch that way," Tintin snapped. He glared at the portrait. It was too creepy, knowing that Nash had been watching him sleep. Or that he'd gotten close enough to him to re-dress his wound and check for a fever. Tintin liked a lot of things, but being vulnerable wasn't on that list.

"It surely is," Nash said with a sigh. He propped the painting against the wall and dragged his stool out from behind the easel. He sat on it and faced Tintin. "I'm surprised by how long you slept. I had time to take the tyres off the car."

_There goes one mode of quick escape. Always good to know._

"I need to pee," Tintin said abruptly.

"Oh. Of course. You're probably hungry too." Nash pulled a small key out of his jeans' pocket and unlocked the handcuff around Tintin's wrist. As soon as that was done, he simply left the room. A few moments later Tintin could hear typical kitchen noises: cupboards opening and closing; things rattling; a kettle boiling.

_Curiouser __and __curiouser_, _as Alice once said._

With a groan, Tintin levered himself into a sitting position. His head swum sickeningly – chloroform hangovers were pretty bad; about a six on the Captain's Personal Hangover Scale (patent pending) – so he had to pause for a few seconds to wait for the white spots that were dancing in front of his eyes to dance away again. When he stood up his legs were shaky, and his whole left side was stiff from the aching gun-shot wound. Gritting his teeth, he limped to the open door and looked out.

Outside the door was a small hall. He was in a bungalow for sure: no stairs anywhere. To his left, at the end of the corridor, was a closed door. Directly across from him was a manky bathroom. The kitchen noises were coming from the right-hand side. Still limping, he hobbled into the bathroom to relieve himself. When he was finished, there was less noise coming from what he assumed was the kitchen, and the air had started to smell of frying bacon. His stomach growled hungrily.

Ignoring it, he went to the closed door at the end of the hall and pushed it open. It was a small room – a box room – and contained an old, white wardrobe and a child's cot, the latter of which was standing in front of a long window. He made his way over to it and, leaning over the cot, examined the window. It opened – it was very stiff and quite a lot of dried paint had shattered and flaked away, but at least it opened.

He'd need to move the cot before he could climb out thought, and even though it was old and dirty (and smelled a bit… well… _damp_) it was surprisingly heavy and sturdy. It looked _old_-old: well-worn and well-used, and well-loved with it: the kind of thing passed down through a family, unlike the wardrobe which looked as though it had arrived flat-packed from Ikea. There was a certain type of _quality_ with the cot.

Nash had mentioned something. Tintin dredged his memory for facts. Hadn't Nash mentioned a wife and child, or something? Could this be his – _their_– house? Where they now back in Belgium? It would have taken close to a day to drive from Naples to Belgium, and the chloroform could have taken another twelve or so hours… Had he been gone for so long? Oh, poor Captain. He really _would_ be worried. He didn't deserve this.

"What are you thinking about?" Nash asked. Tintin jumped visibly: he hadn't heard the man sneak in, but when he turned Nash was standing in the doorway holding a spatula.

Tintin eyed him warily. "I was wondering where we are," he replied cautiously.

Nash shrugged. "We're home."

"We _are_ back in Belgium, aren't we? Ha! I was right. This is your house, isn't it?" he demanded.

"It's where we came, my wife and I, to escape her family. They're bad people, Shane. Watch out for them."

Tintin blinked. "How do you know my name?"

Nash laughed softly. "I didn't know it was a matter of national security. Come on: your food is ready. We can talk later." He turned and left. Tintin watched him disappear at the other end of the corridor as he went back to the kitchen. Tintin stood for a few more seconds, his desire to flee warring with his natural curiosity and desire for answers.

His curiosity – and hunger – won in the end. Well, he was a reporter after all.

* * *

><p><strong>Author<strong>**'****s****note:**I know this is a _very_ short update, and I'm very sorry, but I have been a bit busy over the last few weeks. Y'know: Christmas and all that guff. Thanks for all the positive feedback and I'm sorry I haven't got more for you. With any luck, things will calm down soon and I'll be able to update a bit more.

ps: could the person that was interested in turning this into a comic please PM me? You left an anonymous comment. :)


	18. Chapter 18

**Eighteen**

_Three things can not be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth._ – Buddha

* * *

><p>He limped cautiously to the other end of the hall. It widened out into a small entrance area, with the kitchen to his left, the small sitting room directly ahead, and to his right stood the front door.<p>

Which was standing open.

Tintin paused, his heart in his throat. He cautiously peered into the kitchen – Nash had his back turned as he fiddled with the stove – before silently making his way through the front door. It was foolish, he knew: he could barely move, let alone make a run for it, but it would give him an idea of where they were exactly, and how near to them the road lay.

Trees.

And not just trees, but _trees_. They were everywhere! It was… They were… Great snakes, there were just so _many_ of them!

They towered over him, looming above the small fenced-in paddock that the house sat in The bright sunlight slanted in through the shafts of the branches and the thick tree trunks, casting bright aureoles on the rich, brown mulch underfoot. Overgrown and treacherously rocky, the driveway disappeared under an avenue of thick leaves as the trees on either side grew up and over. It almost looked as though they were trying to grow together, to join with one another: they reached for each other like desperate lovers.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Nash asked happily. Tintin turned sharply. As he did, his aching hip finally gave way with a teeth-shuddering bolt of pain. With a grunt, he dropped to his knees like a stone. He stayed there, staring up at Nash as his shock warred with feelings of impending doom and utter hopelessness.

_Where the hell were they?_ Did places like this even _exist_ any more? Where were the pavements? The roads? The traffic lights? Where were the buildings and the people and the cars and the _noise? _Moulinsart was rural, and Marlinspike Hall was secluded – it had acres of land, a river, and a small portion of forest in its grounds – but this looked as though someone had plucked a house from the suburbs and put it back down in the middle of the Black Forrest!

Nash, drying his hands with a tea-towel, continued as though Tintin hadn't just collapsed in surprise. "It's a very old building," he was saying. "It used to be a chapel in the Middle Ages – Cathar, but they didn't do so well around here. Catholic, y'know? – but it was converted into a house long before we bought it. It's so secluded. I love it here." He had walked over to Tintin and now held out his hand to help his floored hostage up. "You should come back inside. Eat something; get your strength back."

"Where are we?" Tintin managed to ask. Avoiding Nash's hand, he struggled back to his feet.

"I told you: we're home. Come on, before the food gets cold." Nash slipped his hand under Tintin's arm and pulled him back towards the house. Unable to put up much of a fight, Tintin reluctantly allowed himself to be led. He looked back, almost longingly, at the stony driveway.

_I'm going to have to find a pair of shoes…_

**x**

The kitchen table was small and round. Tintin sat on the side furthest away from the door. Nash sat directly opposite, sipping at a cup of coffee. Behind him, through two open doors – the kitchen and the front, which had been left tantalizingly open – Tintin could see part of the outside world: a flash of fence, the wood treated and stained dark; the trees; a shaft of light. The only sounds were those of the birds and the low susurrus of the trees.

The bacon lay on a plate in the centre of the table. Beside it was a pot of coffee and a plate of toast. Nash was looking at Tintin with polite interest, wondering if the boy would crack and eat something.

Tintin was just plain suspicious. So far, Nash hadn't mentioned murdering him, and that might not be the good thing it seemed to be. Everyone that had so-far claimed to _want_ to murder Tintin hadn't been able to pull it off. This was probably because he'd been forewarned of their plans by their declaring it loudly and repeatedly. Therefore, it stood to reason that the one person that _didn't _go around shouting about murdering Tintin was probably the person most capable of pulling it off, and might have poisoned the bacon.

Plus, Nash _does_ have a track record of murdering people. There was simply no denying it.

Ugh. It was too hard to decide what to do. This heat wasn't helping the matter, either. He swiped absently at his forehead, his fingers disturbing the thin patina of sweat that had beaded there. His head _ached_, the pain pulsing in time to the rush of blood to his ears _boom-boom-boom_ and his stomach churned horribly. A feeling of bone tiredness overtook him as his head swam dizzily. His gorge rose in his throat.

Gasping, he quickly dropped his head until he was staring at the floor between his legs, waiting for the feeling to pass. White lights flashed in front of his eyes and he was dimly aware that Nash had moved. When the man hunkered down right beside him, Tintin jerked away from the hand that was laid on his arm. "Don't touch me!" he snapped.

Nash rolled his eyes and stood up. "You're sick," he said. "You should go and lie down." Tintin didn't reply, so Nash returned to his coffee.

They sat, looking at one another, until Tintin began to feel a little better. He wasn't as dizzy, and he was starting to feel cold now. He was still tired though, and his eyes were getting heavy. Angry at himself for showing such weakness, he grabbed a piece of bacon and ate half in one bite. "So what are you going to do?" he asked when he was finished. The bacon tasted fine – and he hadn't dropped dead yet – so he took another piece.

Nash shrugged at the question. "I hadn't thought much about it. It was sort of an impulsive thing to do."

"Which? The murders or the fraud?"

"Taking you."

"You were going to kill me anyway. Does it matter where you do it?"

Nash cocked his head. "I have no plans to kill you. That's why I took you away from Akass. I saved you."

Tintin rolled his eyes. "Right. So can I leave now? I mean, I'm saved, yes?"

Nash shook his head.

"I see. So… what? How are you going to turn this to your advantage? Is this just a kidnapping now? Because I have to warn you: I don't have that much money."

"I would have thought you'd be well taken care of," Nash said neutrally.

"I am," Tintin replied, "but I'm still only sixteen. Most of my money is in a trust that I won't get until I'm eighteen. Nobody's stupid enough to trust a teenager with a large fortune."

"Do you have access to your own earnings at least? You have a job."

"That's none of your business," Tintin said sharply.

"True, but it would have been annoying if I was a _real_ kidnapper."

"You _are_ a real kidnapper," Tintin exclaimed, frustrated. "This isn't my house and I'm not your child! Look, what do you _want?"_ The heat had come back, full-force, chasing the chills from his bones and bringing with it that same, sickly feeling. "If you're trying to… I don't know, tell your side of the story, to try and _justify_ what you did, I'll tell you now you're wasting your time. I'm not going to write about you in a good light, Mr Nash. You've done too much for me to do that. You need to answer for what you've done."

Nash shook his head. "That's not what I want." His face was sad as he looked around the kitchen. "I thought that bringing you back here would help you remember. I thought there'd be a moment of… I don't know… r_ecollection. _I thought you'd understand."

"Understand what?" Tintin felt like a fool, taking his eyes off Nash as he glanced around the room. Bring him _back?_ Bring him back where? He'd never been here before, had he? He certainly didn't remember it.

"Right beside you," Nash said wearily. "Look down. Now go maybe three steps to the right. _Your_ right. You see it?"

_A patch of floor?_ Tintin looked at Nash, mystified.

"Right there," said Nash, "is where I killed your mother. Shane, I'm your father."


	19. Chapter 19

**Nineteen**

_Friends are God's apology for families -_ Hugh Kingsmill

* * *

><p>Tintin stayed silent for a few moments, staring at the spot Nash had pointed out. Nash was, he decided, a demented mad man.<p>

"Fine," he said at last, turning back to Nash. The man wore a strange expression on his face: he was wincing, clearly expecting some kind of outburst or rant of some sort, but his eyes were curiously sad.

"Fine," Tintin said again. "Can I have a phone now?"

"What?" Nash asked, blinking in surprise. "Wait, what?"

"Can. I. Have. A. Phone. Now. Please?" Tintin said slowly and clearly.

"Shane. I killed your mother." Nash stared hard at Tintin, who was keeping his face carefully blank, searching for some kind of emotion or reaction.

"Look," Tintin said at last, casting his eyes up to Heaven, "I don't know what your angle is, Mr Nash. But if it helps you in some… _sick, twisted way,_ then _fine._ You killed my mother. Personally, I'm going to continue believing the most logical theory about my being orphan: that my mother was probably very young and from a rural area; she got pregnant and the guy wouldn't marry her; and her Catholic parents forbad her from having an abortion.

"_Now._ I've played along with you for long enough. Can I please have a phone? You're a very sick man, Mr Nash, and unfortunately for me, so am I. I want to call the Captain and I want to go home."

"_To hell with the Captain!"_ Nash roared, slamming the table so loudly with his fists that Tintin jumped in fright. He stood up so quickly his chair fell backwards, crashing to the floor behind him. He leaned forward, white-knuckled fingers clutching the edges of the table, and for a mad moment Tintin recoiled, thinking that he would leap over and attack. "You think I'm lying about this? You think I'd lie to you about something so serious? Why would I lie?"

"How the hell should I know?" Tintin cried. "Because you're clearly quite insane? Because you're a weird, sexual sadist that gets off on the fear and anger and helplessness of your captives before you kill them? Because you're a sociopath and you enjoy witnessing the pain of others? How about all of the above? I've _seen_ men that do all those. I've _talked_ to men that do those things. I've heard their stories about their childhoods, and I know the psychology behind it, but that doesn't make it better. That doesn't make it _right. _These men still exist!

"Let me tell you something, Nash: I've still seen worse than that. I have seen the worst – the _very_ worst – of what men can do to one another. There's _nothing_ you can do or say to me that will ever be as bad as some of the things I've seen. You wouldn't even make my top five."

As he spoke, Tintin had found himself unconsciously mirroring Nash's stance as his own anger grew. By the time he'd finished talking, each softly spoken word crashing into the room like a brick, he was almost nose to nose with the man, the table crouching uncertainly between them.

Silence stretched before them. They looked each other in the eye – _was there a resemblance? _Tintin thought to himself. _Was there a certain tilt to the nose? The same curve of the lip that made them both look like they were ready to smile; Tintin in happiness and Nash in a smirk? The same curve of the face and rounded chin? No. No, there wasn't, of course. That's just my imagination. _

Each waited for the other to relent, to sit back first. Whichever did it would be giving a little more power to the other, and neither could afford to lose the little power they had. Tintin forced himself to hold on to the table, to ignore the many aches and pains that racked his body. His gunshot was open again. He could feel the blood pooling in the bandage and seeping beneath the surgical tape. His legs were almost gone again. He felt like he was living on his last nerve; running on sheer adrenaline and bloody-mindedness.

Nash cracked first.

"You were teething," he said, breaking the moment. They both sank down into their chairs, Tintin with a frustrated growl that hid a moan of pain. _Why was the man continuing with his delusions?_

"You screamed all day and all night. We hadn't slept in about four days, Shane. It was torture. We were just so tired. We had been snapping at each other all day, sniping back and forth. Our nerves were shot, and I have a short fuse… Your mother did too. So passionate. So beautiful when she was angry." He was speaking in a low voice now, almost as though he had forgotten that there was anyone else in the room with him other than his ghosts, and Tintin found himself leaning forward so that he'd hear every word, so that he wouldn't miss any of the story.

_Why am I even listening to this? Her hair was the same colour as mine though, wasn't it? Sometimes, I think I can almost see her face. _

"It wasn't a small row," Nash continued. "It was a big one. I'm glad of that. I hate it when I hear about men that kill others over something small, something they can't even remember a few days later. She was going to leave me. She was going to take you, my own son, away from me. She was going home to France. She wanted her parents to help her: she said it was too much. She was lonely." He rose and walked over to the stove. Tintin's eyes followed him, wide with the sudden knowledge that he really, _really_, didn't want to know this story. "She was right here," he said, his voice filled with wonder. His hand drifted up as though he were reaching out for someone that only he could see. "She had just finished sterilizing the bottles – for you – and she said she was taking you and leaving. And I hit her."

"Stop," Tintin said.

"She fell. And she started to cry, and she was so _loud_. She was screaming. You were already crying – you just… you wouldn't _stop_ – and when she started you got worse. You were so loud, and she was so loud… I couldn't think" –

"Stop!"

– "I just needed her to be quiet. That's all I wanted, I swear to you. I just wanted her to _shut up!_ But she wouldn't stop! She just kept going, and going…"

"Stop," Tintin whispered. His head was starting to swim again, but Nash was lost in his own memories now, his eyes filled with old pain and anger.

"I wasn't thinking. I just grabbed the pot and hit her. I didn't mean it, Shane, I swear I didn't. It got her here" – his hand went to his head, his fingers fluttering at his temple – "and then she stopped. She just… She stopped. She wasn't screaming any more, and I could think again, but she wasn't moving…"

"_Stop it! Just stop it!"_ Tintin launched himself at Nash, taking the man by surprise. They crashed into each other and hit the floor hard, and Tintin started punching at every part of Nash he could reach. His self-defence lessons were lost as his anger clouded everything, and he quickly tired under the combined weight of his uncontrolled emotions and his fever. Nash, for his part, let him; accepting the wrath he had clearly been expecting. He curled over, his arms protecting his face from the blows, until Tintin's strength finally gave way and he rolled off Nash, exhausted again. His adrenaline was spent; his last nerve snapped.

"I deserved that," Nash said glumly. He rolled onto his back and stared disconsolately at the ceiling. "I deserve more than that. If you want to kill me, I understand. I won't _let_ you, but I'll understand."

"I can't kill you," Tintin said quietly. He scooted back awkwardly until his back was resting against one of the kitchen cabinets.

"No?" Nash turned his head, surprised, and looked at him.

"No."

"Why not?"

Tintin shrugged. "Because if I kill you now I might die before help arrives." He got unsteadily to his feet and hobbled towards the door. He needed air. He needed to get out of this house, out of this place.

"Do you want me to tell you about her?" Nash asked suddenly. "About your mother, I mean."

Tintin stopped in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder at Nash. When he was younger – really little – and stilled lived in the care-home, he'd harboured a secret fantasy: that his mother was European royalty – a princess – that had fallen in love with a super secret spy from another country. But they'd had to keep their relationship a secret, and that was why he, Tintin, had been given up for adoption.

A few years later, he knew how the world worked and he'd accepted that in all likelihood his mother was a young Catholic girl whose parents had insisted on her carrying the baby to term and giving it up for adoption, wary of the shame still associated with both abortion and single-mothers. He'd also accepted that his father wasn't a super secret spy, but was probably a feckless layabout or a married man that had buggered off as soon as he'd learnt his lover was pregnant.

He'd never really been interested in meeting them. Oh, when he was younger he'd have loved to have lived with his parents, but once he escaped the care-home he hadn't seriously considered it, and he hadn't even thought of it since he'd moved into Marlinspike Hall with the Captain. He hadn't _needed_ them for anything, and he just didn't have that burning desire to know where he came from – not like a lot of the other kids he knew. And ever since he and the Captain had discovered Red Rachkam's treasure there was a niggling and persistent fear that if his parents came forward now, they'd be doing so out of a desire for monetary gain instead of love for their lost child.

He didn't want to be rejected. Not when every one that mattered already accepted him.

Now, here stood Nash offering answers. Well, he was lying down _really_, but he was still offering the sort of answers that most orphans would kill for. Who am I? Where did I come from? Who do I look like? Who do I take after? What are my family like?

_My name is Tintin. I'm from Belgium, and I look like myself. My writing has been compared to a young John Connolly, in both fiction and journalism, and my family are a rag-tag bunch of misfits that fit me perfectly. _

"No," Tintin said finally. "I don't even want to know her name." He looked away again and limped out into the hall, and out the front door. Nash watched him go, and when the boy had disappeared around the corner he sighed heavily.

"Her name was Madeline, and you look a lot like her. You have the same hair colour, too," he whispered.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Merry Christmas, everyone! Here's your present: two new chapters and an update that doesn't end in a cliff-hanger! I hope everyone has a good couple of days and eats too much and watches loads of rubbish telly. Enjoy!


	20. Chapter 20

**Twenty**

_Hope is the greatest gift of all_ - Lord Havelock Vetinari

* * *

><p>Outside, Tintin found a patch of sunlight at the back of the house, near the woodpile where the trees were at their thinnest, and sat down in it. He needed to think. So much information and too many emotions were swirling within him, and for the first time in <em>ages<em> he was feeling a hint of self-doubt. Everything was threatening to overwhelm him. His mind, always prone to wandering, analysis and flights of imagination, was working overtime now. He needed to relax; to focus.

_Take a deep breath. Good. Now another. Good. In. Out. In. Out. Find your focus, Tintin, find your centre. _

_A good reporter remains unbiased. He is not swayed by emotion. If he is unable to write without emotion, he will take a photograph and let it speak for him. A good writer can change a whole civilization with a few well-chosen words: a good reporter knows not to._

_A good reporter does not get sucked into an emotive response. He sees past the human face of global corporations and ignores the sob-story of the Little Guy. The facts will be presented and the truth will out. _

_Facts. What are the facts? I have been missing for so long now that the alarm has been raised. The majority of missing teenagers are treated as runaways. Unless the Captain has linked Nash to my disappearance – and is able to convince the police to treat it as a kidnapping – it won't be top priority. And iff the Captain _has_ convinced them to treat this as a kidnapping, nobody knows of Nash and my shared connection to Flanders. In such cases, where the kidnapper has made no contact to demand a ransom – and I don't think Nash has – then the police will be looking for either a dead body or Nash himself: statistically, in such cases the victim is dead within the first twenty four hours. _

_Right. So nobody knows where I am. There's no guarantee that anyone other than the Captain will be looking for me. That leaves it up to me to escape…_

That noise.

Tintin looked up, holding his breath. He couldn't see much of the sky beyond the tree-line, but the part he could see – directly overhead and above the house, and the patches between branches – showed an achingly beautiful blue sky, free of clouds. And that noise was the unmistakable whirr of a helicopter!

He got to his feet and limped around, hands cupped around his eyes as he searched for any sign of a 'copter. The noise grew louder – he had to see it and signal it quickly, before Nash heard it and came out to investigate – but then faded after a few minutes. Tintin was left standing in the midst of the whispering trees, disappointed.

"Nobody's coming for you," Nash said. Tintin rolled his eyes and turned around slowly, staring at the man. His heart had leaped at the sound of the 'copter's blades, but now it seemed that even that hope was gone: even if someone had figured out the connection to Flanders, it was a huge area to search and Nash wouldn't have been stupid enough to keep the house in his own name.

_Would he?_

"The Captain will come," Tintin said flippantly. Nash's face darkened.

"That man? What makes you think he'll come?"

"He's like a father to me," Tintin said viciously as he pushed by Nash, enjoying the flare of jealousy in his face. _So there!_

"Where are you going?" Nash growled.

"I'm going to take your advice and lie down," Tintin said, forcing a yawn. _The more confident and unconcerned I am, the more rattled and nervous he gets. _"I'm going to need my strength to escape here."

Nash snorted. "You won't escape here."

"Famous last words," Tintin replied, turning on his sunniest smile. "I've heard that a lot. So far, it's never been true. Good day to you." He went back into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him in a very satisfactory way. Once out of sight, he slumped down on to the bed.

He was in pain, that much was true. His fever didn't appear to be abating any time soon. He wondered idly if Nash would take him to the hospital if he got worse, or let him die here for fear of discovery.

The Captain _was_ coming, though: Tintin was sure of it. The Captain wasn't a stupid man – he was clever enough to track Tintin across the world, when Tintin had been employed as a radio officer on the _Speedol Star_ under a different name – and he was bloody stubborn to boot. He'd never give up searching; never. Even when faced with mountains and oceans and caves hidden behind waterfalls, the Captain pushed on doggedly.

He sighed and rested the palm of his hand against his eyes, enjoying the cool sensation against his hot skin.

_**tuka-tuka-tuka-tuka-tuka-tuka-tuka-tuka-tuka**_

_That noise!_ The helicopter! It was back!

He rushed back outside as fast has his aching body would allow, ignoring Nash, who had returned to the kitchen. Wondering at the fuss, Nash followed him out.

_There!_ Slinking through the patches of sky some distance away, to the right of the house, was a black helicopter. It was clearly searching for something. Or some_one_. It was Captain Haddock: Tintin was sure of it.

"Ha!" he said out loud.

Nash clapped his right hand over Tintin's mouth. His left arm hooked around the boy's waist and almost lifted him clear off his feet as he dragged him back inside the house.

"Hush!" he hissed over Tintin's struggles. "Shh! Shhh. I won't let them take you. Don't worry."

_No! Let them take me!_

Trying to shout and wriggle free, Tintin found himself propelled back into the bedroom and dumped unceremoniously onto the bed. He landed on his left arm, his hand caught under his falling bodyweight, and his left wrist twinged painfully. When Nash grabbed that wrist and cuffed it to the headboard, Tintin cried out. Nash placed his hand back over Tintin's mouth. "They'll be gone soon," he promised. "They don't know you're here."

_They don't know _anyone_ is here!_ Tintin suddenly realised. _The house looks abandoned from outside and everything is overgrown! _He quickly stopped struggling and nodded mutely. He needed Nash to leave him alone: he had a plan. Nash frowned suspiciously and tentatively took his hand away from Tintin's mouth. Tintin lay still, his every nerve stiff and crying out for Nash to go away.

Still eyeing Tintin cautiously, Nash moved to the window. When he was sure Tintin was genuinely behaving, he peered out of the glass. The 'copter must have been overhead now – it was just so _loud._ Nash drew the curtains and they waited in silence until the 'copter pulled away and the noise died off once more.

Nash blew out a noisy sigh of relief when the 'copter had finally gone, and Tintin felt his muscles unclench. They had clearly found the house. They would come back again and again, doing random sweeps in the hope of catching someone off guard. They may even send a police car: the Captain would probably insist on it.

_Soon. Soon I'll be back in Marlinspike and this will all be a distant memory. I can forget all about this and things can go back to the way they have always been. _

But now he had another problem: Nash was still hovering, pacing slowly back and forth, and the longer Tintin lay there, the more he _wanted_ to lie there. It was so soft, and he ached so much. He could feel himself drifting, his eyelids growing heavier. There was a noise, and he jerked awake, startled. His left wrist pulled against the cold, hard steel of the handcuff and he gave a soft groan of pain. With any luck, it was only a sprain or a pulled muscle from the wrench Nash had given it.

He opened his eyes: Nash had started to pack up his easel. _He must have a plan too. Good! Everyone should have a plan… _His eyes slid closed again and the noises Nash was making slid into the general background. It was joined shortly by humming. _Is that the Captain?_

For a moment he was back in the Hall, caught in a waking dream. He was lying on the couch in their favourite sitting room. Snowy was lying alongside him, the dog's body curved to snuggle into the curve of Tintin's stomach and chest. He must have dozed off, he realised. _It was all a dream! _He smiled then, so widely that it felt as though his face was about to split in two.

The Captain was sitting in a reclining chair. Tintin could see his profile. A book lay open across his knees but he was watching TV. Tintin glanced up lazily: _The X-Factor: UK_ was on – probably just watching for the sake of Cheryl Cole – and some girl was singing on the garish stage. She was singing… some song, but Tintin found that he couldn't _quite_ see what she looked like, or hear the song. It was as though his eyes kept sliding away from the TV, while the song was garbled but vaguely familiar.

The Captain started humming. He was actually quite musical – he could hold a tune perfectly well – but didn't really like singing in front of people unless he was a bit drunk first. He didn't even like humming when people were around, so he'd developed an extraordinary way of dealing with it when he got caught: he'd add strange noises to the tune. It was always good for a giggle.

Tintin cleared his throat.

Aware of his audience, the Captain covered his tracks. "Pom-pom-pom – _frrrrt! –_ pompity-pompity-pom – _Hngh! – _pom-pom-pompity-pom – _Och aye the noo! – _dah-dah-dah-dah-dah – _Hoots! Jimmy!"_

Despite himself, Tintin chuckled. Nash looked up, startled. The boy had finally drifted off to sleep. He dropped the rest of the paint brushes into the jam-jar and went over to the bed. He placed the jar on the bedside table and leaned over Tintin, smoothing down that ridiculous quiff.

"Captain?" Tintin asked weakly.

Nash froze, a hot feeling of anger and jealousy washing over him and curling in the pit of his stomach. Spitefully, he grabbed Tintin's left wrist and dug his fingers in, squeezing until he could feel sinew and bones and veins grinding together. Tintin started to scream, the agony piercing his fevered mind.

_What have I done!_

Nash let go at once. "I'm so sorry." He petted Tintin's arm, stroking it in what he hoped was a soothing manner. "I'm sorry. I won't do that again, I promise." Tintin's eyes slid closed again and he quietened at once, going straight back to sleep. Shaking his head and muttering to himself, Nash grabbed the jar and hoisted the easel under his other arm and left the room. When he came back a few minutes later, minus the art equipment, Tintin hadn't moved.

_Let him rest. At least you know where he is. He can't escape,_ he thought to himself.

He locked the door behind him as he left again.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Seriously, _how_ did the Captain find Tintin in _The Land of Black Gold?_ Clearly, Tintin couldn't have joined the _Speedol Star_ under his own name - the Captain of that ship would have known him at once, when he was looking at the work orders and saw the name, but his only comment was on Tintin's youth. Captain Haddock must have been quite clever to figure it all out. I mean, I know it was very complicated, but at the same time extraordinarily simple... XD

I've also taken liberties with the Captain's musical abilities, but only because I laughed for about 2 days after I thought of that scene. And every time I read it over, I can imagine it so clearly I end up laughing out loud again.

Also, notice how when Tintin chuckles, he doesn't chuckled _darkly_. This is because, although the curtains are closed, it is still quite light in the room. :D


	21. Chapter 21

**Twenty One**

_Nothing brings people together more, than mutual hatred_ - Henry Rollins

* * *

><p>Tintin opened his eyes at the sound of the key turning in the lock. He was alone, finally! He waited until he heard Nash's footsteps moving away before sitting up. His left wrist now ached more than it had before. <em>What a butt-hole! <em>he thought to himself. Although the pain _had_ helped him clear his head, that was for sure. It had woken him up properly.

Right. He could break free. All he needed to do was focus his mind. He couldn't break the iron headboard, but the cuff might be loose enough to work off, if he stayed very calm and was very careful. He practiced yoga: he knew how to find his centre. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, remembering a quick yoga meditation to relax his body and mind.

It worked, for a given definition of 'worked', up to a point. He had almost managed to work the bracelet off his hand, but it had started to get stuck below the bottom knuckles of his fingers, at the widest point of his hand. Twisting it from side to side like a screw-top lid, he gritted his teeth as the hollow ridges on the inside of the bracelet sliced through his skin. When blood began to flow freely, he put his foot against the headboard and, bracing himself, began to tug.

Lubricated by blood and sweat, his hand slipped free of the cuff gradually. The sudden force when it shot out landed him on his back, and he lay there for a moment, eyes clenched tightly shut, as he waited for his various injuries to stop complaining.

_Why is nothing ever easy for me?_ he wondered.

When he was able, he stood up and made his way over to the window. It was a good, big window, but like the other, its frame had been painted over so many times that he could no longer see the join or the joints. The handle pushed up with a lot of resistance, but even when he leaned his full strength – such as it was – against the glass the window still wouldn't budge. He struggled futilely with it for a few moments, until noises in another part of the house made him stop.

A door closed with a slam. Tintin froze, his heart thudding dully in his chest, his breathing arrested. He waited in silence for a few moments until he heard the sound of footsteps coming. Quickly, he lay down on the bed again. Opening the cuff, he slipped his hand back into it, making sure that it was still loose enough to pull free quickly, while looking like it was secure. The key clicked in the lock again and Nash opened the door. Knowing that his breathing and sweaty demeanour wouldn't fool a blind man, Tintin sat up, careful to keep his left hand and wrist hidden, and regarded Nash silently.

_Play along and get him out of here._

"We're going somewhere," Nash said. He crossed to the bed and unlocked the cuff that was secured to the headboard. Tintin's eyes widened. _What?_

The cuffs came free. Nash stared at them for a second, dangling from his hand. Tintin took advantage of the man's astonished confusion. Leaning back, he planted both feet against Nash's stomach and _heaved_ with all his might.

Already off-guard, Nash seemed to sail backwards through the air, hitting the sharp edge of the open door with a shout and a loud crash.

_Well! It's about bloody time someone else got hurt for a change!_

Quick as a flash, Tintin was up and running. He slammed his shoulder into the window and it finally came free, slamming open with such force that it swung the whole way open and rebounded half-way closed again, the glass showing a thick network of cracks from where Tintin had hit it. Pushing it back open, Tintin pulled himself up and wriggled through on his stomach. A hand closed around his ankle but a vicious kick backwards solved that problem, loosening Nash's grip and propelling him the rest of the way through the window. He hit the ground, his hands out to protect himself, and felt something snap in his left wrist.

_Yup: definitely broken now. FML! _

He staggered to his feet and started to run for the back of the house, fear and desperation lending him strength and speed he didn't know he had. Over head, the familiar roar of the helicopter broke the air and he laughed out loud. _I'm going to make it!_

The 'copter breached the trees as Tintin reached the woodpile. Whooping, he started to climb up. "I'm here!" he screamed, trying to make himself heard over the roar of the blades. "Help! _Help me!"_

A hand grabbed at his waist, pulling him back from the woodpile, and he cried out in pure rage. _So damned close!_ He struggled and shouted and kicked as much of Nash as he could reach as he was dragged back towards the house. Above, the 'copter picked up speed and veered away.

_Why is it leaving? Come back!_

The reason for the retreat became clear a second later as a dark shape shot by the side of his face. It was a gun. Nash aimed it carefully at the 'copter and loosed off a few shots into the sky.

x

The Captain leaned against his car, waiting. The heat was tremendous today and it was getting hotter as the minutes ticked by. He had already discarded his jacket and jersey – they lay on the back seat of his car – and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Thundering typhoons, but this was a desolate place!

They were surrounded by growing things and life, but there was a strange feel to the place. When he'd gone for a cheeky piss in the forest he'd almost gotten lost. The first thing to go had been the sound, and he hadn't even noticed it: he'd walked into the trees, the sounds of voices and the crackle of radios at his back, and within a few steps they'd vanished, leaving the Captain alone among the whispering gloom of the trees. He'd finished his business quickly, the skin on his back and neck crawling unpleasantly. With a bit of imagination, he could almost see the spirits of lost souls wandering mournfully through the murk. The forest felt ancient and malevolent.

A sailor and his superstitions. Tintin would laugh at him.

Oh, but it was just so frustrating! He could practically _see_ the house from here, but Thompson and Thomson had forbidden him outright from going near the place until the 'copter confirmed that Tintin and Nash were both there.

Until now, the Captain had always thought of himself as a man of action. Point him in the right direction, and he'd go there and raise Caine. But, thinking about it, he'd always had someone to _do_ the pointing: his brother, his friends – especially Chester, the old reprobate – and Tintin. Now, here he stood, cooling his heels for God knows how long, waiting for someone to point. He couldn't help but feel that if the situation was reversed, Tintin would have no hesitation about jumping into danger first, and to hell with what anyone else told him.

In the car ahead of his, the sleek black Chevy Corvair the Thompsons drove, the radio crackled into life. In the distance, the helicopter buzzed around the forest, searching for signs of life. Some words crackled over the radio's static and Thomson called out; "They've got him!"

The Captain started for a second, frozen by a rush of relief that was chased by new feelings of worry and fear, and he hurried over to the car. "Is Tintin ok?" he asked urgently.

"Do you have a visual?" Thompson was asking calmly.

"I have visual contact," the pilot confirmed. "The boy is still alive."

"Do you have a shot at Nash?"

"Negative; he's using the boy as a shield. He has a gun: I repeat, target is armed." In the distance, three shots rang out in rapid succession. Barely seconds later the 'copter reappeared, climbing into the sky as it retreated to a safer distance.

Thompson hung up the radio and pulled out his phone. The whole area of woods around the house was filled with camouflaged camping snipers, waiting for orders to move forward to the house. He pressed a button and spoke calmly into his phone. "Stay in the woods but get closer to the house," he said. "If he makes a run for it, take him down. Thomson and I are proceeding on foot."

"What happens now?" the Captain asked eagerly as Thompson hung up.

"We're going up there," Thomson replied as he struggled into a bullet-proof jacket.

"To be precise, we're going to negotiate with Nash," Thomson continued.

"I'm going with you," the Captain said at once. "Don't even think of trying to argue with me: I'm going to get Tintin back."

Thompson and Thomson looked at one another. "Now Captain," Thomson said, "I don't think that's wise. This is a job for professionals."

"I don't care if I have your permission or not: I'm going up to that house." The Captain turned on his heel and marched purposely towards the driveway.

"Wait!" Thompson squeaked. "You need a flack jacket!"

"And a bun!" Thomson added. "I mean, a gun!"

x

Nash roughly dragged Tintin back to the house and into the kitchen, shoving the boy onto the cold tiles. Tintin got to his knees and glared balefully at him. "Give it up," he cried. "The police will be here in seconds. You have nowhere to go!"

"Shut up and let me think!" Nash paced in short circuits, the gun hanging forgotten from his right hand.

"_Think?_ You think you can get out of this? Look around you! There's no way out. Give yourself up: maybe they'll go easy on you."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Nash snapped. Tintin had to agree: the legal system was going to do a lot of things to Nash over the coming months and years, but 'going easy on him' probably wouldn't be high on that list.

"No," Nash said, pacing again. "You're my ticket out of here."

"Just…" Tintin cast his mind about, searching for a solution, _"run_ then! Go to the forest and run. Hide somewhere. Don't tell me you don't know the woods like the back of your hand."

"Of course I do."

"Then go: hide there now. It's your only chance to escape. Take it."

"You want me to escape?" Nash stopped pacing and looked hard at Tintin.

_Lie to him! Tell him what he wants to hear and get him away from you!_

"No," he said firmly. "I want you to pay for what you've done. But you're a coward, Nash: you'll choose the easy way out, won't you? Suicide by police. And you're selfish, too: you'll take out as many innocent people with you as you can. So if it's a choice between dying in this Godforsaken place with you, or going home with the Captain while you escape justice, I'll take the Captain any day!"

"You little bastard!" Nash got down on one knee and pushed his face close to Tintin's. "I gave you life!"

"_You gave me nothing!"_ Tintin cried, his voice rising. "Even if I did believe your ridiculous story did you _honestly_ think that I'd accept you as my father? Is that what all this has been about? Did you think that if you got me to this place… What? We'd play happy families? That I would forget about my life? About the Captain and my home? And be _your_ son? Don't be so deluded! Even if you _are_ my biological father you'll never be anything more to me than a sperm donor!"

Nash shook his head gently, his eyes cold, and Tintin could see that the man was almost shaking with fury. "I see," he said. He stood up and went over to one of the cupboards and began rummaging in it. Tintin kept his eyes on him, wondering what new torture the man had invented.

_If I'm about to die, at least I got to tell him off!_

When Nash turned back, he was holding a thick roll of grey duct tape. Wordlessly, he knelt down behind Tintin and grabbed his arms, forcing them behind his back. Tintin screamed as the agony of his wrist shuddered out in sharp jolts. He must have blacked out from the pain, because when he came back to his senses he was propped against Nash's chest, his hands securely taped together – every second was filled with hellish pain – and Nash's hand was over his mouth, muffling his keening sounds of hurt.

"Does that hurt?" Nash whispered, his mouth pressed against Tintin's ear. "Believe me, your words hurt more. You want me to pay for my crimes? _Fine_. But if you think for a second I'll let you go back to that man's house, you're sadly mistaken. A life for a life, my son: I'll rot in jail and your precious Captain will rot in the ground. Do settle down, Tintin, there's a good boy. Bait isn't supposed to be as noisy as you are."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> there is one more chapter and an epilogue to come. And they are written. And they are typed up on sitting on my computer. Stay tuned tomorrow for the end of the adventure! That's right, folks! Happy freaking New Year!

In other news, it looks like The Crab with the Golden Claws will be an ongoing story. If you haven't checked it out/made up your mind about it, please do so here: .net/s/7690385/1/The_Crab_With_The_Golden_Claws and let me know if you want it to be a full story or not.


	22. Chapter 22

**Twenty Two**

_This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning_ - Winston Churchill

* * *

><p>The driveway was bloody long. A car had brought them some of the way, but had dropped them off before they were in sight of the house. A long stretch of barbed wire, strung about a thick plank of wood, lay in their path. Nails stuck out jaggedly, to burst the tyres of any car that attempted to approach the house.<p>

"There may be more traps," Thompson said. They were crouched out of sight, behind a small knot of thorny bushes. "Keep your eyes open."

"Gotcha," said the Captain. "Watch out for booby traps."

"Exactly. Nash has owned this house for a long time: he's had plenty of time to make traps. Pit falls, bear traps… there could be anything."

"Right." The Captain, keeping low and carefully scanning the ground around him, started forward again.

"Captain!" Thomson hissed. He stood up, annoyed. "Wait for us! Don't you think ca-_aaaaaaaaargh!"_ He put his foot down and felt the click of a trap. Wire closed around his ankle and he was dragged off his feet. He found himself swinging like a pendulum, upside down and suspended from a tree. "Help!"

"Hang on, I'll get you do-_oooooooooooooown!"_ Thompson hurried over. As his foot went down on a dry patch of leaves and twigs, it continued to go down. And down. And down.

The Captain looked around, annoyed at their loudness. Thomson was still swinging back and forth. A little further away from him, the bushes had disappeared into a large hole, along with Thompson. _Thundering typhoons! What a pair of tits!_

x

Tintin tensed at the sound an engine. It sounded like a car, or maybe a jeep, but it had cut out without getting close to the house. For once, he was hoping that the Captain wasn't with the police. He hoped that the Captain was far, far away from here; far from Nash and his misplaced sense of vengeance.

He was kneeling in the doorway – more slumped than upright – with his hands twisted painfully behind his back and tape over his mouth. Every time he moved, trying to shift himself into a bearable position, something in his left wrist grated against something else and his vision dimmed as a world of agony overtook him. Nash was standing somewhere… somewhere behind him, out of sight of the door. The plan was cruelly simple: the Captain would walk in to the house, see Tintin and go straight to him. Nash would then kill him.

_Footsteps._

Tintin's heart became to race. A shadow passed over the sunny hall as someone neared the front door. Nash hadn't even closed the door: he wanted Tintin to be seen straight away.

A man stood in the door, haloed by the sunshine. For a second, Tintin didn't recognise him.

"Blistering barnacles! Thank _Christ _for that!"

Tintin tried to call out, to shake his head and convey his fear to the Captain with his eyes, but all the Captain could see was that fear, and rushed to him. He dropped to his knees and pulled Tintin into a fierce hug, his hands scrabbling at the duct tape. Tintin screamed into the gag as his broken wrist was jolted, nausea and fire-hot agony searing his arm.

"What did you do to him?" the Captain asked sharply. He looked up. Nash was sitting in one of the hard-backed kitchen chairs in the far corner of the room. He was only visible once inside the kitchen, out of sight of the hallway and the front door.

He shrugged, unconcerned. "He might have broken something."

"You're a monster." The Captain pulled out his little Swiss Army knife and carefully cut through the tape that bound Tintin's wrists. "How could you do this to your own son?"

"With ease," Nash said dryly. He stood up and showed the Captain his gun. The Captain ignored it and turned back to Tintin, peeling the tape away from his mouth.

"Captain!" Tintin gasped. "H-he" –

"I know, son, I know," the Captain said soothingly. He cupped Tintin's face and tilted it up. "I know it's not fair of me to ask, but I need you to keep being brave. Can you do that for me?"

Nash walked over and pressed the gun to the back of Tintin's head. "Drop your gun, Captain," he said calmly. "Try anything and I'll blow his brains out."

The Captain eyed him distastefully. "Bashi-bazook! Harlequin! Skegness tramp!" He let go of Tintin and reached for his gun. "Ungulating vegetarian! Technocrat! Jobbernowl!" He let his gun dangle from his finger before placing it carefully beside Tintin.

"Push it away," Nash ordered. The Captain obligingly slid it away from them. It shot passed Nash and came to a stop just a little under the table.

The Captain turned his attention back to Tintin. "Trust yourself," he said in a low voice, "and whatever happens, I want you to walk away from this with your head held high. Don't _crawl under the table_ with grief. You understand?"

"I understand," Tintin agreed.

"Oh, shut up!" Nash spat. He grabbed Tintin by the back of his t-shirt and hauled him out of the way, half throwing him aside. He levelled his gun at the Captain.

There was a scrabbling at the door and the Thompsons hove in to view, both covered in a fair amount of greener and soil, and both with their guns in their hands. "Drop your weapons, gentlemen," Nash warned, "or I'll kill him where he stands."

The Thompsons looked at each other and lowered their guns. "Don't be crazy, Nash," Thomson said. "You're completely surrounded. Give yourself up and end this."

"You stole my son," Nash said to the Captain, ignoring the Thompsons. "You took my son away from me."

"You gave your son away!" the Captain declared. "Blistering barnacles, man, look at what you've done to him!"

"Goodbye, Captain." Nash's finger tensed on the trigger and one of the Thompsons cried out a warning, their guns moving upward in a slow arc as time seemed to stand still. A loud roar echoed in the small confines of the kitchen and the air was filled with the stench of burning gunpowder.

The Captain dropped to the ground, his arms covering his head protectively. Even as the Thomspons shouted their warning, Nash toppled to the ground too. The Thompsons stood, deafened by the loudness of the shot. For the briefest of seconds they were baffled, wondering what the hell had just happened. Nash was screaming in pain, but the Captain had fallen too…

"Get his gun!" Tintin called out in a ragged, annoyed voice. They turned to see him, still on his knees, holding on to the Captain's gun with his right hand. The barrel of the revolver was still smoking slightly.

"Oh, well done Tintin!" Thomson said. He and Thompson rushed to Nash, kicking his gun further out of reach as the Captain, unhurt, jumped up and rushed to Tintin.

"Good shooting, lad." The Captain prised his gun out of Tintin's right hand and slipped his arms around the boy's shoulders.

"A through-and-through," Thompson exclaimed happily as he gave Nash a cursory examination. "Clean shot through the shoulder. Damn fine shooting, Tintin!"

Tintin looked up into the broad, relieved face of the Captain. "I was aiming for his head," he whispered.

"Well, we won't tell them that. Come on; let's get you out of here." He carefully helped Tintin to his feet and led him away.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Final update! It gives me great pleasure to declare this fan-fic as _Complete_, instead of _In-Progress!_


	23. Chapter 23

**Epilogue**

_Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light_ - Helen Keller

* * *

><p>Groaning softly, Tintin opened his eyes. <em>White<em>, was his first impression, and for a moment he wondered if he was dead. It wasn't a bad thought – he wasn't afraid or anything – and it was rather a nice feeling. He didn't hurt at all now, and he felt quite floaty and nice. Then his memories came back and he sat up, realising he had just been staring at the ceiling for the last fifteen minutes.

He was in a hospital bed. He vaguely remembered getting into an ambulance, the Captain with him every step of the way (and sitting on a hypodermic needle by accident), but he couldn't really remember anything after that. He was in a good sized room with a small bathroom off to the right, the door standing slightly ajar. The windows were open and a soft breeze washed over him, and he could hear the familiar sounds of a city. A black television was mounted to the wall at the foot of the bed: Clarkson and the rest of the _Top Gear_ crew were messing about with a formidable looking Hilux jeep, but the sound had been muted.

That it was _Top Gear _was strangely comforting: it was the Captain's favourite television show.

He took stock of himself. His left arm was in a light-weight, dark blue cast. Lifting his t-shirt – a fresh black one that looked brand new – he could see that his old gunshot wound – or Ol' Woundy, as he was starting to fondly think of it – was freshly bandaged. He had a few choice bruises and cuts, but they looked to be healing now too. A drip was attached to his right wrist, feeding fluid into his exhausted body with each steady drip.

The door opened and a kind-faced woman wearing a smart set of nurses' scrubs came in. She smiled happily and spoke in rapid Flemish. "Ah, you're awake at last! Everyone will be so pleased. Let me just call Doctor Stone for you." She crossed to the bed and he found himself scooting warily away as she leaned over and pressed a red button that hung from a cord above his head. She smiled reassuringly and went back to the door, and leaned out. "Captain Haddock? He's awake now," she said, switching to English.

Tintin's heart soared and his smile returned as the Captain appeared at the door. They grinned at each other, happy but curiously shy. "Oh Captain!" Tintin said at last, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. "I thought I'd never" –

"Less of that!" The Captain hurried to the bed and laid a comforting hand on Tintin's shoulder. "Never think like that, lad. It's bad for the soul."

"But how did you even find me?" Tintin asked.

"Nash told Akass everything. Then Akass told us in return for a deal."

"What deal?" Tintin asked sharply.

"Relax: he's going to jail for a _very_ long time. But he'll spend his days in an American prison so he can be near to his own family."

"American? I thought he was Greek?"

"Nope: he's from New Jersey. Look, here's the doctor now."

"But _how_ did you find me?" Tintin asked again.

"Hush up and I'll tell you in a minute."

"Good to see you awake again, Mr Tintin!" The doctor was a tall man with a good-natured face and a round body that reminded the Captain of an old Toby jug. "My name is Doctor Stone: I've been treating you. Now, I want to take your temperature. Stay still for a moment."

Dr Stone produced a digital thermometer, and Tintin stiffened as he pushed it into his ear. They stayed like that for about minute, until the doctor pulled the device out and read the small L.E.D display. "Good! Back to normal. Another day or so and we can discharge you, I think. It was touch and go for the last twenty four hours – you certainly had us all worried; it was quite a bad infection – but the antibiotics have done their job and cleared it up. Congratulations, Mr Tintin! You have the constitution of an ox! I've seen grown men suffer less, and almost break under the strain."

"He's too stubborn to give up," the Captain said proudly. He reached out and ruffled Tintin's hair and immediately felt like a bit of a tit.

"I just need to take one more sample, and then I'll leave you two alone." Dr Stone pulled a small, white plastic cylinder from his pocket. He opened it and pulled out what looked like a swab. "Open your mouth, please."

"What is that?" Tintin asked, curious.

The Captain looked uncomfortable, and tugged at his ear. "Is this necessary?" he asked worriedly. "Surely he gets a say in this?" He pointed at Tintin.

"A say in what?" Tintin asked warily. "What's going on?"

"Nothing for you to worry about," Dr Stone said heartily. "Open up wide – good man…" He ran the swab over the inside of Tintin's mouth, along each cheek. "Like so! And it's over. Now, how's your appetite? Are you hungry?"

"Starving!"

"Good! You're well on the mend. I'll have something sent up to you. Try and drink some water too." Dr Stone replaced the swab in its plastic container and slipped it back into the pocket of his white coat. Wishing them good morning, he left.

"What was that about?" Tintin asked as soon as he was gone.

"Er, it's a bit complicated." The Captain brought a chair over and sat next to the bed. "Akass gave us the name of Nash's first victim" –

"Madeline Gascard?" Tintin asked.

"Exactly. That statue, the one called 'Mother'… Well, her parents have positively identified her. D.N.A. testing will confirm it. We got a court order this morning demanding that you do one too. That's what Dr Stone was doing just now."

"Is that even legal?"

"Well, technically you're still a minor…"

"I'm seventeen in a few months."

"Actually, if you're really Madeline Gascard's son" –

"Captain," Tintin said flatly, "I'm seventeen at Christmas."

"Fine. Ok."

"Who ordered it?"

"The Gascard St Clare family."

"That was fast."

"I have a feeling they move fast when their money's at stake. I've already talked to my solicitor – she thinks they'll just get you to sign something saying that you won't go looking for any of Madeline Gascard's share of their fortune."

"They don't have to worry about that," Tintin promised. He lay back against the pillow, unsure of how he felt about all this. "I don't want anything from them."

"They could be your family, you know," the Captain pointed out quietly.

"I already have a family."

They smiled at each other, until the Captain ruined the moment. "Fist bump?"

"Bros for life." They looked around, making sure nobody was lurking outside, and fist bumped.

"We're dorks," Tintin said. "So how did you find me? Was it very simple, but at the same time rather complicated?"

"No, not at all." The Captain clasped his hands over his stomach and took a deep breath. "Madeline's family didn't know a Ramó Nash, but they knew a Ramó Col, and Ramó Col owned an apartment in Paris and a house in the middle of the boonies in Flanders. Both places were checked, but the apartment had been abandoned a long time ago – a couple of hippies were squatting in there, I believe – and the house in Flanders seemed a dead cert, considering all the history you both have there. Did you know Nash and Madeline had run away to live there, when she found out she was pregnant?"

"He mentioned it," Tintin said, rolling his eyes. "He told me everything. Is it all true?"

"It's true that they lived there, and it's probably true that he killed her there. I have a feeling that our Mr Col has a hard time letting go of the past."

"So what happens now?"

"Now? You get well and we go home."

"So, what was wrong with me?"

The Captain shifted his chair so that he was facing the television, and reclined, planting his feet on top of the bed, beside Tintin's legs. "A blood infection. It was pretty bad," he admitted. "I guess it didn't help that you were bloody exhausted."

"Oh. Well, I feel ok now."

"Yeah, that'll be the morphine. You had one of the worst cases of Saturday Night Fever I've ever seen." He put one hand on his hip and jabbed at the air with the forefinger of his other.

"Aaah! Captain! It hurts to laugh!"

"Sorry."

"Where's Snowy?"

"Back at the hotel. We're still in Flanders. In Oostende," he added. "If you like, I can smuggle him in for you later."

"In here?"

"Yeah!"

"In to a hospital?"

"Yeah!"

"Where there are sick people?"

"Uh, yeah…"

"A dog?"

"Um."

"Perhaps not?"

"Perhaps not."

The Captain pressed a button on the remote control and they settled back in silence to watch Simon Cowell take a Suzuki Liana around the _Top Gear_ race track. It was a repeat: they both knew he'd beat Jimmy Carr's time. It was nice, Tintin realised, to just sit and relax. It was a change of pace, and both were glad of it after the preceding few days.

"So," he said eventually, "did I miss anything?"

"Like what?" the Captain asked.

"I don't know. News? Where's my phone?"

"Your phone?" The Captain rolled his eyes. "Blistering barnacles, I don't know how many times I had to answer your phone. You don't half get a lot of calls, do you? I had to turn it off, eventually. It's in the car."

"You turned it off?" Tintin exclaimed. "But I never turn my phone off! What if someone rang with a tip-off or an exclusive?"

"Do I look like your P.A.? Tintin, I was a bit busy trying to find you! If I wanted to spend my days answering your phone, I'd demand a wage. And a title."

"Fine, I'll call you 'Lord Haddock'. Can I have my phone now?"

"No. It ran out of battery, you cheeky sod, and I don't have a charger for it. I'll get it for you later."

"When I'm discharged," Tintin said happily.

"Thundering typhoons, like hell!" the Captain said with a snort. "As far as I'm concerned, you're going to do _exactly_ what the doctor ordered this time, and _stay in bed!"_

x

Two hours later, Tintin checked himself out of hospital and had an emotional reunion with Snowy. Then he, along with the Captain and Snowy, started the journey back to Moulinsart and Marlinspike Hall. It was, he knew, a welcome journey; possibly the most welcomed journey of his life so far. They left Oostende behind gladly.

Ramó Nash would be going to jail for a very long time now, and the families of the dead girls would finally receive closure, the Gascard St Clare family among them. it would be a long, thankless job, trying to identify each of the bodies, and Tintin knew realistically that not all of them would be claimed. But for now, that was a job for someone else and for another day. All Tintin had to do now was sit back for the next hour and let someone else do the driving.

"Blistering barnacles, that sodding air conditioner!"

"Can I turn on the radio?"

"Whatever, just keep the volume do-_arrrrgh! My ears!"_

"Sorry, Captain. Ooh! Cheryl Cole!"

"Turn it _down,_ you baubeling probationer, you!"

"Sorry! Kind of like that song, though. It's catchy."

"Ha! She got fired off _The X-Factor U.S.A."_

"No way! Crumbs, Cowell, you fool!"

"Yup. She's gone back to England. She didn't get her old job back either."

"If she needs a place to stay she can live in my bedroom. You won't mind that, will you Captain?"

"Pfft! Get in line, kid; get in line!"

_**Fin**_

* * *

><p><em><em>**Author's Note: **And thus ends my first ever fan-fiction! I have been completely over-whelmed by the response you guys have given me. 100% of the comments/reviews have been constructive and wonderful, and the Tintin community in here is amazing. Much thanks, from the bottom of my heart, to every person that took the time to read and review this story. Some of you have stuck with me from the beginning, some of you we picked up along the way, but all of you have encouraged me to finish this so much. Thank you all.

Er. Considering the ending... Modern!Tintin will probably continue. Maybe with a story set in Hong Kong. With Chang. That might already be half-written. Probably after _Tintin in Paris_ and _The Crab with the Golden Claws _are finished. *slinks back into the shadows*


End file.
